


The Essence of Life

by cklls



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 54,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cklls/pseuds/cklls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fertility issues in pureblood marriages lead to desperate measures. Draco seeks out help from a most unlikely source, in a most unlikely way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnseenLibrarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnseenLibrarian/gifts).



> Written as a gift for a DMHG Bingo winner and posted with her kind permission.

Draco Malfoy sat in his father’s study, staring blindly at the amber liquid in his glass. The elder wizard in the seat opposite him was droning on and on about “duty” and “responsibility” and “contracts,” and – not for the first time – Draco was both grateful and horrified over the arranged marriage that he’d muddled through for nearly seven years.

“You realize, Draco, that if she doesn’t conceive in the next four months, you’ll have no choice but to divorce her,” his father concluded.

“I’m well aware, Father,” Draco acknowledged with a deep sigh. “And we all know that if it hasn’t happened by now, the likelihood of a miraculous pregnancy occurring in the next several weeks is pretty damned slim. Shagging her more often is not the solution; it never has been.” He set the nearly full glass on the mahogany side table. The alcohol never helped to dull the ache, anyway. It, like so many other things in his life, had become nothing more than a prop.

“What have the Healers said? Are there any new developments?” Lucius inquired.

Another deep sigh was followed by a slim hand running through short, layered blond hair. “There’s nothing new. We’re having the same problems that many other pureblood couples are having. It seems our gene pool has become in-bred to such an extent that conception is nearly impossible. The so-called lucky ones are having children with no magical signature at all, or with severe birth defects. Astoria is more frightened over that possibility than over the likelihood that we’ll no longer be married in a few months. However hopeless it is, the Healers still tell us that they continue to search for solutions. It just seems that Astoria and I will run out of time before that effort succeeds.”

Lucius took a long, deep drink from his own glass of Ogden’s. “How do you feel about that?”

“Father, I’m fond of her. You can’t have relations with someone for seven years without creating some kind of bond. But I can’t say that I’m desperately in love with her. I didn’t choose her; she was chosen for me. In some ways, that makes this a little easier. We’ve both always known that this was a possibility. It probably caused us each to remain somewhat protective of our hearts, recognizing just how likely it was.”

“So you’ll be…”

“I’ll be as fine as I can, given the circumstances.” He rose and paced the room, moving to stare out a tall, narrow window. His next words were barely audible, but the anguish behind them was clear. “I feel like such a failure. The most fundamental thing a man can do…” Draco did not turn; he didn’t want his father to see the tears that had gathered in his eyes.

Lucius was not a demonstrative man, but neither was he as heartless as some would have thought. He stepped behind his only son and placed his hands on the younger wizard’s shoulders, offering what comfort he could. “You know that your mother and I had similar problems before you came along, Draco. She miscarried five times before you were conceived, and her pregnancy with you was very difficult. We tried again after you were born, to see if we could cheat fate once more, but she was never able to conceive again. That’s one of the reasons she’s always been so protective of you; you were our miracle.”

“I know that we’re not the first couple to suffer this fate, not by a long stretch. It was one of the arguments that we heard in the lead-up to the war, but I always thought it was just propaganda. I was too young and ignorant to recognize the truth of it. Now, I know better. If I’d understood it back then, I’d have refused the marriage and tried to find a Half-blood.”

“It was too late by then, Draco. If you remember, those contracts were entered when you were twelve years old.”

“But I didn’t know about them until I was seventeen,” he protested. “There were loopholes that we could have exploited, if I had really understood. You and mother were so intent on us going through with everything.”

“There were other advantages to the family with that alliance, Draco. The Greengrasses were neutral during the war; it was politically expedient as well as what we thought to be the boon of maintaining our blood purity. And, you seemed to like her well enough. We all thought it was the best we could do, at the time.”

“Yes, and with you in Azkaban for five years, I was not as privy to your counsel as I might have been otherwise,” Draco noted, with just a hint of bitterness.

“It could have been much worse, if not for your mother’s late, though timely, aid to Potter,” Lucius retorted.

“Water under the bridge, Father. We have a more immediate problem to solve. I assume that you’ve seen to all the provision clauses? Her needs will be met?”

“Of course, Son. The divorce will be amicable and mutual. Our solicitor has been in contact with her family's representative. They’ve known as much as we have that this day was coming.”

The younger Malfoy nodded. His marriage, his life as he’d expected it to be, was over. That, unfortunately, didn’t mean there weren’t hurdles yet to clear. He had three years before things would change again, and this deadline had much more dire consequences, at least to his financial health. At the cusp of such cruel fate, he recognized that it was more than just his own life that was to change; the collective future of the wizarding world had no choice but to shift at the same time.

00000000000000000000000

Hermione Granger-Weasley watched impassively as her now-ex-husband packed the last of his clothing into a trunk nearly identical to the one he’d used throughout their years at Hogwarts. If she hadn’t personally disposed of the old one, she’d have mistaken this for the same item. As much as things change, they do always stay the same, she mused. Their split was not exactly amicable; she’d caught him in flagrante delicto with the same witch who’d come between them as their relationship was in early bud, back before the war had even begun. Now, as far as she was concerned, Lavender Brown could have the lout; she was well rid of him.

As he closed the lid of the trunk, Ron turned to the woman he knew he’d wronged. “When can I see the kids?” he asked, hoping that the witch’s fury would subside long and often enough that his two young children would be able to maintain some kind of relationship with their father.

“The decree says every other weekend, beginning on the first of next month. You can visit them here next weekend, if you want. Make sure you call or owl me first, though.” She was being generous; there was nothing that required her to allow him access to the children other than on their Wizengamot-mandated schedule. In truth, it had nothing to do with him; Rose and Hugo missed their daddy. She would not hurt them in her anger at what Ron had done to her.

“Thanks. That’s nice of you. I, uh, guess I’d better be going, then,” he stammered. When he automatically leaned in to peck her cheek, she shrank back. “Sorry,” he mumbled, an embarrassed flush staining his cheeks. “Force of habit.”

She glared at him, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. “Goodbye, Ronald.”

When his graceless pop of Apparition stopped echoing in her ears, the lonely witch sunk to her favorite worn leather armchair and wept in sadness, frustration, and relief. Her marriage, and her life as she’d expected it to be, was over. There were pieces still to pick up, and children to care for, and a job which needed more of her attention than she’d been able to give it lately. Things were going to be different from this point forward; of that, she had no doubt.

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Astoria had been as gracious as she knew how to be during their “friendly” divorce. She didn’t love Draco any more than he had loved her; she was, unabashedly, enamored of the Malfoy lifestyle. If the “no-fault” clauses in their marriage contract hadn’t been iron-clad, she’d have had to fight for pittances. Thankfully, her father’s solicitors had been diligent in ensuring that she would want for nothing, should her marriage to Draco dissolve through no wrong-doing on her part.

Draco had been insistent that she take the home they’d bought shortly after their marriage, regardless of its exorbitant value. He owned a perfectly adequate flat in London, and assuming he could navigate his way through the latest legal and familial challenge, Malfoy Manor would someday be his. Both of his parents had invited him to move back to the massive property; they reasoned that, with over thirty-four thousand square feet of space, it wasn’t terribly likely that anyone would feel under-foot. He had declined, grateful for their offer, but insistent on his independence. He had a marriage to grieve and a future to contemplate, and he’d prefer to do that in solitude.

“I think it best that we not see each other for a while, Draco,” Astoria told him as he packed the last of his personal belongings for his move to Wizarding London. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”

“I know, Astoria. I don’t think I can, either. We’ve been good for each other in many ways, and I’m so very sorry that it’s come to this,” Draco finished her thought. While neither was exactly heartbroken, they had formed a connection. It would be more painful to re-open that wound continuously than to allow it to heal without interference.

“Be well, Draco. I wish you all the very best,” Astoria offered through a sniffle.

Draco wrapped her in an embrace, and kissed her softly. “Goodbye, Astoria. I hope you find happiness.”

He turned on his heel and, with one more nod, he was gone. An hour later, he was settling in to his flat, unpacking the last of his clothing with the aid of Tuppy, his personal house-elf, when he heard the chime of the Floo indicating that a visitor was requesting entry.

The familiar, if infrequently heard, voice of Blaise Zabini echoed in the cavernous sitting room. “Hey, mate, I heard the news. Need a pal?”

Draco snorted in amusement. Even if he hadn’t heard from his school chum in months, he could always count on Blaise for two things: first, to be thoroughly aware of all the latest gossip (thanks to his ever-so-well-connected wife, Pansy), and second, to be there when he needed him most. “Come on through, you arsehole, but you’d better have Firewhisky with you,” he warned, only half-joking.

Blaise laughed aloud as he stepped out of the green flames, holding a bottle of Ogden’s Finest in each hand. “Will this do?” he asked, arching an eyebrow to underscore his sarcastic tone. He set the two bottles on the table between two overstuffed leather armchairs and approached his old friend. “Come here, you arsehole,” he repeated, giving the taller, slimmer man a bear hug. “You all right?”

Pulling away, Draco shrugged. “I guess. It’ll take some getting accustomed to.”

“What now? How much time do you have?” Blaise inquired, knowing that Draco wouldn’t be offended by his prying. So many of them were in the same boat.

“I turned twenty-seven three weeks ago, so… one hundred fifty-three weeks,” he calculated, removing the cork from the bottle of alcohol nearest him. He drank, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as he pulled the bottle away.

“Then what?”

“Then, I’m poorer than a church mouse, as the saying goes.”

“Nah, not that bad,” the dark-skinned wizard scoffed. “You’ll still have your own assets.”

“True, but that’s a paltry sum in comparison to the Malfoy legacy,” he pointed out, truthfully.

“What are the terms?”

“Married, and an heir conceived, by my thirtieth birthday, or it all goes to Cousin Francois’ branch of the family.”

“Tough luck, mate,” he commiserated. “Any idea what you’re going to do now?”

Draco shrugged and swigged another drink. “I need to see the Healer again - see if there’s something new on the horizon that might help. The bigger issue, though, is that I need a witch to reproduce with. I happen to be without one at the moment.” He snorted derisively.

“They were absolutely certain that you and Astoria…?” Blaise’s unspoken question was clearly understood.

The blond shook his head, slowly and sadly. “No way, no how. There’s a strong possibility that she won’t be able to conceive with anyone, but definitely not with another pureblood. It seems that my problem is slightly less… calamitous.”

“And they wouldn’t allow adoption to satisfy the terms of the charter?”

“No. It has to be a naturally conceived and blood child of a Malfoy.”

“What do you mean by ‘naturally conceived’? What other way is there?”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Blaise, you’re not that dense.”

“No, seriously, mate. It depends on the definitions. Pansy and I were able to use in vitro to satisfy our contract. Would it not allow that?”

“No, in vitro is an option if both partners are fertile. The issue is with egg or sperm donation. That’s a deal breaker with the terms of our family charter, and that’s what Astoria and I would have had to do.”

“I’m so sorry, mate. I didn’t realize your terms were that stiff,” Blaise consoled, lifting his own bottle of Firewhisky in a salute.

Draco drank again. “Yeah. Sucks.” He scratched at the back of his neck, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Now, I need to go back for more testing, to see for sure what my own potential is. I do that first thing tomorrow.”

“At St. Mungo’s?”

“Mmhmm, with the specialist Healer. This is the one who is trained in some Muggle fertility methods as well as in Wizarding techniques. He helped guide us through the maze up to this point. Since we looked at all the traditional wizarding remedies without success, we figured it couldn’t hurt to look at all perspectives. For us, though, there was no help to be found.”

“Well, here’s to new methods and opportunities, my good man, wherever they may take you,” Blaise drawled as he dragged on his bottle once more.

After an evening of getting as wasted as he’d been since his bachelor party, but with far fewer companions, Draco dragged himself to his empty room. It had been a very long time since he’d been without a witch to warm his bed. He slept fitfully, anticipating the poking, prodding and waving that he’d undergo in the morning. When sunlight crept over his face, he pulled a pillow over his head and groaned. He'd awakened to a hangover to beat all previous hangovers in the history of mankind, or at least that’s how it felt at the moment. When the spinning stopped, he forced himself out of bed to make it to the loo before his bladder burst. Done with his business, he inspected his bloodshot eyes in the mirror and was momentarily surprised to see a flashing arrow on the glass, pointing downward to the grey granite countertop.

“Ah, Blaise, I owe you one, buddy,” he croaked, reaching for the bottle of hangover potion that his best mate had left for him. He downed the appropriate dosage in one gulp and re-corked the vial, placing it in the cabinet where his toiletries had already been stored.

After a quick trip back to his bedroom to retrieve his wand – how it had ended up on his nightstand, he could only guess – he returned to the en-suite to shower and shave. He had just over an hour before he needed to be at the Healer’s office. He’d probably have time for a quick breakfast; scones and tea would have to suffice.

Dressed in summer-weight navy blue wool trousers, a light blue oxford shirt, and his navy blue robes, Draco entered the Healer’s reception office five minutes before his scheduled appointment. He was called in to the examination room ten minutes later.

Healer Amedee Hubert, as Draco had told Blaise, was not only a specialist in wizard fertility issues, but had studied the newest Muggle methodology and sought to combine the best of both worlds’ medical knowledge to improve the chances of conception for desperate couples. He had been testing and treating the young Malfoys for a few months, focusing first on strictly wizard methods. His testing had encompassed Muggle technologies, but the results had not provided any solace for the couple.

He had been very disappointed to be unable to help them achieve their wish. He had told them that their largest problem was that the two of them were so physically incompatible as to have significantly less than a one percent chance of conceiving together. Each would have a better chance with someone other than another pureblood, but Draco’s chances of becoming a father, someday, were marginally better than Astoria’s of becoming a mother. That likelihood, in almost any scenario, was less than five percent. They had decided to stop treatment, and the couple had divorced, as was required in their marriage contract. Now, Draco Malfoy had returned on his own to see if there was some hope for him, potentially with another partner.

“Healer Hubert," Draco acknowledged as the physician entered the room. He extended his hand, which the other man accepted.

“Hi, Draco. How are you?”

“I’m okay, considering the situation,” Draco replied.

“I can’t imagine that this would be easy on you or your former wife,” he noted, sympathetically.

“We were… reasonably content, but as you know, our marriage was arranged. Our contract required this; we always knew it was a possibility. What I’m really interested in now is, where do I go from here?”

“Is there a particular reason that you’re in such a hurry, Draco? Most people take a little time after the end of a marriage to figure out what they want to do with the rest of their lives.” The Healer was concerned, apparently, for the young man’s mental health along with his physical well-being.

“I have responsibilities beyond myself, Healer, and strict time limits in which they must be achieved. If it will be as difficult to conceive as it has been thus far, I haven’t a moment to waste.”

The Healer had heard this story before; Draco wasn’t the only old-family heir he’d been treating. “I’ll do what I can to help you, Draco. You know there are no guarantees, and there are some possibilities that you may find… challenging to accept. We’ll run a few more tests, and go from there.”

Draco nodded. “What’s next, then?”

“It’s been about three months since you’ve given me a sample, so we’ll do that first. I want to check motility again, and do another round of DNA and genetic testing. I have my suspicions, but I’d like to get them confirmed before we talk about them in any detail.”

“So, you, um, want a sample now?” Draco stammered. While it was a clinical necessity to “deliver the sample” on-site, and as many times as he’d had to do it, it never failed to unsettle Draco that people knew exactly what he was doing in that little room. They’d tried the stasis method – producing the sample at home and placing it under a stabilizing spell – but the sperm invariably broke down beyond the lab’s ability to test each necessary factor, particularly motility, which was a highly critical measure.

“Yes. You know the drill. There should be sample cups in the room, and the usual inspiration, should you need it.”

When Draco rolled his eyes, the Healer laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Okay, mate, have at it. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” With that, he opened the door and directed Draco to one of the available “Privacy Rooms” that were reserved exactly for the purpose of male patients delivering semen samples into sterile plastic vials.

Draco entered the small room, locking the door with his wand, and settled into the reclining chair that was covered with a new sterile sheet after each patient. A plastic vial, with his name and patient identification number already labeled, sat on the side table in arm’s reach. As the Healer had reminded him, the “usual inspiration” was indeed available. A selection of wizard and Muggle magazines and videos, each depicting some kind of titillation, were available to aid a wizard in getting where he needed to go. Draco rarely needed to use the visual aids; his own imagination was generally sufficient. Today, however, he thought the help might be necessary. Although he hadn’t had sex in a couple of weeks – it had just felt wrong once he and Astoria had separated in anticipation of their divorce – the mood just wasn’t there. Since his wife had often accompanied him to these appointments, it was not uncommon that she would “assist” him, as recommended by their Healer. She could no longer be his inspiration; that would just feel morbid and creepy. Chalk up one more little change that in the moment felt monumental.

He couldn’t stay in the room forever, though, so he needed to create some inspiration from his own mind or take advantage of the material provided for him. With a sigh, he unbuttoned his fly and tugged down the zipper, lifting his hips to remove the trousers completely. There was absolutely no comfort in achieving erection and orgasm with his knees trapped in pant legs. His whispery black silk boxers were removed next; while they didn’t impede movement, they could interfere with catching his ejaculate in the sterile vial; that was a lesson he’d learned on his very first appointment, a mistake never to be repeated. He reached for the stack of magazines, favoring the wizard version over the Muggle ones; the pictures moved a little, certainly an advantage over the stationary Muggle version, but not so much that they became totally pornographic. He’d seen the videos a couple of times, but they actually turned him off. It wasn’t so much the visuals – the background music was just horrible. If he could figure out how to mute the sound on the Muggle deeveedee, they might do the trick. For whatever reason, the infernal device refused to respond to Silencio spells.

Therefore, Draco decided to stick with what he knew: wizarding skin magazines. He was grateful that there were a couple of newer ones that he hadn’t seen before. He knew that men all over the world were very visual in their approach to sexuality; he was no different. He flipped through the pages, pausing now and again to gaze a little longer at a particularly good-looking witch or tantalizing pose. There was one in particular who was very interesting to him. Rather than being blatant in her nudity, she was teasing, drawing bits of silk over swaths of skin, hiding and revealing her assets. She wore a mask and a scarf over her hair, adding to her mystery. Her body was petite, but not overly skinny. Draco liked a woman with a few curves; Astoria had been… acceptable, but her waif-like shape was not exactly his ideal.

The vixen on the page blew him a kiss, and Draco chuckled. She turned onto her stomach, revealing a most delectable derriere, and then removed her scarf, displaying long, curly chestnut hair. Draco thought that it reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t place who that might be. Next page, please, he decided, turning the glossy paper to another view. The next image was far less appealing: the woman could have been a twin for his ex-wife, right down to the color and cut of her hair. Draco was certain he didn’t want to go there. The girl on the previous page was infinitely more attractive to him at the moment. He flipped the page back.

He decided to let his imagination run wild. Why not? It surely wasn’t hurting anyone. He (finally!) felt a stirring in his groin. Setting the magazine aside, Draco closed his eyes, picturing that dark-haired temptress teasing him with coy glances and glimpses of ivory skin through brightly colored silk scarves. His imagination conjured them in Slytherin green and silver. His hand found its way toward his quickly burgeoning organ. The beauty in his mind’s eye crawled to him on a large bed, made up with cream silk sheets, and took his dream-penis in her mouth, thoroughly enveloping him. Her tongue teased and lips nibbled, while Draco’s hand stroked firmly, up and down, picking up speed as he imagined her head bobbing, taking him deep in her throat and moving back to his glans, tongue swirling and sucking hard. He could feel his sac begin to tighten and knew that orgasm wasn’t far off. As he reached the point of no return, he suddenly remembered that he needed to capture his ejaculate, and reached for the plastic vial just in time.

“Hunh,” he grunted, partly in a natural reaction to his release, and partly in surprise. He’d rarely been so involved in his fantasy that he forgot the purpose for his manual stimulation. As he cleaned up and got dressed, it came to him that the woman in the magazine and then in his fantasy had reminded him of an old schoolmate whom he hadn’t seen in many years. Hermione Granger, he mused. Even if she was a pain in my arse, if pressed, he thought, I would be forced to admit that she wasn’t unattractive after fourth year. He shook his head in amusement. This was one secret fantasy that he’d take to his grave.

When Draco opened the Privacy Room’s door, Healer Hubert was waiting in the hallway, hand out to receive the sample vial.

“The fresher, the better,” he told his patient. “Make yourself comfortable. I want to run these tests right now, before you leave.”

Draco, his skin still slightly flush from his so-recent orgasm, was grateful for the opportunity to catch his breath for a moment. He returned to the Privacy Room as the Healer had indicated. He sat in the recliner to await the test results, flipping through the magazines somewhat distractedly. It would likely be a little while before there was another witch in his bed with any regularity; he might want a little fuel for his nocturnal fantasies.

A sharp rap on the door twenty minutes later alerted him to Healer Hubert’s return. As the man opened the door to deliver his findings, Draco couldn’t help but notice that his expression was decidedly grim. Draco swallowed his fear and prompted the Healer to speak. “Give it to me straight, please.”

“Well, there is a little good news, but most of it is, at the very least, limiting for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“The good news is that your sperm production and motility both seem to have improved. Have you been abstaining from sex recently?” he asked.

“Well, Astoria and I have only been apart for a couple of weeks, so I haven’t been out tomcatting, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yes and no. I take it you’ve also not been masturbating very often.”

“No, not until just now. I just haven’t really felt…” Draco’s voice trailed off.

Healer Hubert raised his hand. “Not to worry. That’s normal; you’re grieving the end of your relationship. But the upshot is that your sperm seems to have recovered some if its vitality. I think in your desperation to conceive, you and Astoria were actually having intercourse too often. I know we talked about that at some point, but it’s one of the strategies that most people seem to find counter-intuitive and often ignore, sometimes without even realizing that they’re doing it. In any case, that can degrade the quality of your sperm. There is a balance, though. You can’t completely abstain from ejaculating; it’s just as unhealthy.”

“The truth is that we were accustomed to having sex nearly every night, except when Astoria was menstruating, and that’s a difficult habit to change. So, I’m newly divorced, Healer. What do you recommend?” Draco asked with a little frustration.

“I wouldn’t go off with every filly on the farm, but the best case scenario would be to ejaculate about twice a week.”

“I’m not really interested in screwing around, to be perfectly frank with you. I need to protect my reputation if I’m to find another wife relatively soon. Will self-stimulation provide the appropriate results?” Draco wondered.

“Absolutely, but again, not more than twice a week. Can you handle that?”

“Sure. Not a problem.”

“Good. Okay. Another strategy is to ensure that you either wear boxers or nothing for undergarments. It helps to keep your body temperature lower, and that also aids in sperm production and motility.”

“That’s my preference, anyway. Most pureblood wizards don’t wear undergarments with their robes. I only do when I’m wearing wool trousers.”

The Healer nodded his acknowledgement and then paused before continuing. “That’s the easy part, Draco. I’m afraid you won’t be so happy with the rest.”

“Just tell me. I’d rather know than worry about how bad it is.” Draco’s face had gone pale, which was not an easy feat, considering his typical nearly-translucent complexion.

“Your genetic testing is quite definitive. You will not be able to conceive with a pureblood witch. The chances are so remote as to add up to zero. Further, your chances of conceiving with even a Half-blood witch are nearly as slim, less than five percent. Do you understand what this means?”

Draco looked as horrified as any man had ever been, his eyes wide and jaw slack. "I have to come in a Muggle?" he exclaimed, utterly repulsed by the very idea and quite certain his 'equipment' would refuse to function.

“Well, there are some alternatives and options available, but…”

“No! You don’t understand. My family will never accept that as a valid marriage!”

“Draco, it doesn’t have to be a Muggle. It could be a Muggle-born witch,” Healer Hubert said, trying to placate the clearly distraught young man. “And although best results are usually achieved with natural conception, we can still explore treatments such as in vitro fertilization, surrogacy, and ova donation.”

“What’s the difference? Seriously?” Draco had pushed out of the recliner and was pacing the small room, pushing his hands through his hair in frustration and fear.

“Draco, don’t you think your family will understand and support you, if this is the only option available to you if you hope to father a child?”

“I don’t know for certain, but I doubt it. My family charter may not even allow it. The British Malfoy family could very well end with me.” Draco sank into the recliner once more, devastated and stunned.

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Hugo and Rose were spending the day with the Weasley family, allowing their mother a rare day to herself. Hermione planned to soak in a tub for at least an hour, ensuring that her wand was at the ready to keep the water at the perfect temperature, read something strictly for pleasure, and eat a meal that did not include bland, child-friendly flavors. A nice hot curry came to mind.

The transition from wife and mother to divorcee with two small children had not been quite as horrid as the erstwhile Gryffindor had feared. Hermione Granger (she’d dropped the Weasley, despite the protests of many of her former husband’s relatives, who insisted she’d always be part of the family), was not one to back down from a challenge. She had, after all, faced Bellatrix Lestrange and lived to tell the tale.

The children were attending day school, as they always had, and were cared for by their grandmother for two hours after classes, as had been the case for the last two years. Molly had been furious with her youngest son and had only allowed him to stay at the Burrow until he managed to save enough money for a small flat of his own. He hadn’t moved in with his paramour as she still lived with her parents, a fact that was sorely testing his own patience. He got no sympathy from any quarter.

Molly gave her son a deadline of four weeks, which he met only by borrowing a stack of Galleons from Harry, who had reluctantly agreed to help only because he knew his mother-in-law would throw his brother-in-law out on his no-good arse without hesitation. Ginny had been furious when she found out, but figured it was a better solution than Hermione suffering the possibility of running into the bugger when she picked up the children each evening.

Hermione had taken a couple of days off from work immediately after their divorce had been final. She was grateful that Harry had been able to talk Ron into allowing it to proceed uncontested, but the lack of Wizengamot hearings hadn’t meant that no stress was involved. They had known each other for sixteen years – nearly two-thirds of their lives - been in a relationship for more than half that time, and created two children together. For the change alone, it had been earth-shaking. The betrayal, with someone whom she’d once considered a friend, was wrenching and painful. While she knew she would certainly focus on being a good mother to her two children, who were only four and six years old, and earning a living, she really had no idea what she’d do next with her life.

The only thing Hermione knew for sure was that she wanted and needed some time to be a young woman again, however she could do that while still meeting her children’s needs. Someday, she might like to have a relationship again, if she could find a man who would love both her and her children and give her the intellectual and emotional respect that she deserved. She was convinced that finding such a man would be a tall order; she was not terribly optimistic about the prospects, as nearly everyone she knew in the wizarding world was already married, and the remaining handful of men anywhere near her own age were only interested in other wizards. While she hadn’t yet resigned herself to a life alone, she anticipated that it might be a very long time before another man shared her bed. That idea was just a bit depressing.

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Draco had retreated to his flat for a few hours after his appointment with Amedee Hubert. He had to absorb what he’d learned; there was no doubt that his future had just taken a radical turn. He was debating how to break the news to his parents. They certainly knew the general problem, but the myriad ramifications and eminently distasteful solutions were almost as bad as if he’d been told that he was completely sterile. It was small consolation.

While the “how” was still up for debate, the “when” decision had been taken from him. The Floo chime had rung not two minutes earlier, and his father had summoned him to Malfoy Manor. Since his parents had known about his appointment with the fertility specialist, the likelihood that the invitation was for any other purpose than to discuss the appointment's result was as slim as that of Draco keeping the Malfoy empire intact. Avoiding the conversation would not change its content or outcome; he’d suck it up and face the music.

When he stepped through the Floo in his father’s study, Draco was met by the concerned and vaguely hopeful faces of both of his parents. His mother greeted him first, not with words, but with an enveloping and teary embrace. She’d been doing a lot of that lately. His father’s greeting was less demonstrative but no less emotional. “We’ve been anxious to hear, Son. Are you… all right?”

Hearing such heartfelt concern from his parents was Draco’s undoing. The stress and tension of the last few weeks came fully crashing down on him, and he shook his head slowly as his eyes filled with tears. He released one sob before forcing himself to regain control, though his grip on that was tenuous, at best. He hadn’t felt so lost, so young, since the day he’d been branded with the Dark Mark a more than a decade earlier. He allowed his mother to hold him again while he tried to slow his breathing and his racing heart. He heard her whisper into his ear, “Tell us, my little dragon, and we’ll do whatever we can to ease your pain.”

Draco straightened and removed a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his robe to wipe his eyes. “Mother, the news is quite dire. I fear that my future – our future as a family – has met its end.”

Lucius and Narcissa glanced at each other, and by silent agreement, the head of the family took control of the conversation. “Draco, you need to tell us exactly what the Healer told you. I’m no physician, but we need to understand exactly what our position is.”

The younger Malfoy nodded, recognizing that he’d not be able to keep the brutal truth to himself. “Healer Hubert has told me that my chances of fathering a child with a pureblood witch are effectively zero, and less than five percent with even a Half-blood witch.”

Narcissa stifled a gasp at hearing the definitive pronouncement. She’d hoped against odds that the bigger difficulty had been with her former daughter-in-law. It now seemed that the problem between the young couple was mutual. Lucius glared at her.

“That’s certainly troubling, but not really unexpected, Draco,” his father stated. “What else did he tell you? I sense that there’s more.”

“There is. The only good news, if you can call it that, is that I am not sterile. He says that my… potency has improved since our last test.” The humiliation the young man felt at discussing such intimate detail with his parents was evident in the bright red flush on his cheeks.

“So, you could father a child under the right circumstances?” Narcissa concluded.

“Technically, yes. The circumstances, though, are quite unpalatable.”

“What are they? If there’s anything we can do to facilitate success for you, it will be done.” The offer from his mother was vehement.

“Don’t make promises you won’t want to keep, Mother,” Draco warned, trying to ensure that she wouldn’t get her hopes up, only to be so quickly and thoroughly dashed.

She scoffed at his rejoinder with a wave of her hand. “I can’t imagine anything that would preclude us going to any lengths on this, Draco.”

“I have to mate with a Muggle,” he nearly shouted in one breath.

Her gasp this time would not be held back.

“Except that?” Draco bit out.

“Are you sure? Is it the only way?” The desperation in Narcissa’s voice nearly matched his own.

“Well, technically, it could also be a Muggle-born witch, but essentially, yes.” Draco sighed, all of his disappointment and despair finally on display.

Lucius had been strangely silent through the latter part of his son’s exchange with his wife. The family patriarch was absorbing and calculating, a habit that had usually served him well. He had a question or two before he would outline any plan that he might formulate.

“Did the Healer tell you what the cause of the problem is?” he inquired.

“Genetics. His testing confirmed what we feared and suspected. Apparently, as we were warned years ago, there has been too much in-breeding within pureblood circles and we are all too closely related for us to… successfully reproduce. As I know you’ve heard, Astoria and I are not the only couple, by a very long measure, who have had difficulties. It seems that the purer one’s bloodline, the worse the problem is. We Malfoys certainly fall into that category.”

“What did he say about your chances of conceiving with a Muggle-born witch?”

“He said that they were near normal,” Draco answered, feeling no comfort in the news. Truth be told, it made him feel worse.

“Then that’s what you will do,” his father pronounced.

Draco’s eyes flew wide. “You can’t be serious! Destroy thousands of years of tradition to preserve a few Galleons?”

“Well, it’s more than a few, Draco, and the tradition clearly no longer serves us. In fact, it has potential to become our ruin.”

“But doesn’t the family charter preclude marriage and procreation with anyone but another pureblood? Wouldn’t that cause forfeit of the legacy in itself?”

“In normal circumstances, yes. But this is not the case. You have made a good-faith attempt in your first marriage to a pureblood witch. The terms for a second marriage would be slightly different, and a bit less restrictive. If your physician certifies that there is a medical cause that no pureblood witch is an acceptable match, you may choose anyone who is capable of giving you children to carry on the family line.”

Draco was stunned. He’d never heard of this exception. “Anyone? And you wouldn’t object?”

“Why would we? If it means the difference between you having children and continuing the family line, or having it all end with you, there is no discussion. I’m sure your mother and I would prefer that you select a Muggle-born witch than a Muggle, but whatever you decide, we will support.” Lucius’ matter-of-fact tone was as surprising as anything Draco had heard in the last twenty-four hours. He could really choose… anyone. The idea was immensely liberating, even in the face of having to pair with someone whom he would have thoroughly rejected just hours earlier.

“We would counsel, however, that you are very deliberate in your selection. Any witch you pick must be of stellar reputation and magical strength. You would also want to have as much proof of her fertility as you can reasonably obtain.”

Draco snorted. “What am I supposed to do? Ask someone if she's ovulating?”

“I feel confident that you will figure out a way to solve that issue,” Lucius replied. “There is one thing, though, that you should keep in mind.”

“That is?”

“The time table does not change. Your thirtieth birthday is still the deadline for you to achieve your legacy. There is nothing I can do to change that requirement,” his father informed him, not without empathy.

“I expected that to be the case, but I’d rather know than guess,” Draco allowed.

“You’ll need to give some thought to how you’ll proceed. There really isn’t a lot of time to play the bachelor,” the elder wizard cautioned.

“I sowed plenty of wild oats when I was younger; I see no need to screw around for fun’s sake. I have responsibilities, and I will take them seriously. Give me a few days, and I’ll craft a plan to find a new wife.”

“You will let me know if you need introductions, dear?” Narcissa suggested.

“Mother, while I appreciate the offer, I sincerely doubt that you will be much help.”

At her affronted huff, he explained his comment. “How many Muggles and Muggle-born witches do you actually know?” Snitch in hand; match to Draco, he thought.

Narcissa had the good grace to accept his mild rebuke with a nod and a smile. “Of course, Draco. Then again, how many do you know?” She had not been a Slytherin for nothing.

“Not many, at least not terribly well, but I’d venture a guess that someone in my social circle will have an idea or two.” Draco was thinking of Blaise and Pansy. Since Pansy was the biggest gossip in all of wizarding Great Britain, he felt sure she would know every person who was single and available, regardless of their blood status. It was time for a gathering of old friends, Draco concluded.

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Pansy Parkinson Zabini never simply walked anywhere; she flounced, even when exiting a Floo. Draco’s smirk on seeing her do just that into his sitting room earned him a resounding smack to his shoulder. “If you want my help, Draco Abraxus Malfoy, you’ll behave yourself,” she scolded.

“Yes, Pansy, I want your help,” he replied through a chuckle. “Where’s your idiot husband? Isn’t he joining us?”

“He’ll be here in a few minutes. He wanted to stop off to get a bottle.”

“What? He thinks I wouldn’t have the appropriate libations to serve my guests?”

“I’m sure he simply wanted to be certain of the highest quality of those libations.”

Draco shook his head. The one-upmanship between the two of them never ended. If he served the seventy-year-old version – at forty Galleons a bottle –the son-of-a-bitch would insist that only the hundred-ten-year-old blend was remotely acceptable. Whatever the reason, it did mean that the two would drink nothing but the very finest. Draco was accustomed to that.

“Besides, I wanted a few minutes alone with you before he joined us,” Pansy confessed.

“I don’t think Blaise would object to you and I having a private chat, Pans. We’ve known each other since before either of us could speak.”

“Of course he wouldn’t, and if he did, I’d hex him into next week and freeze him out of the bedroom for good measure. It was just a convenient ruse to protect macho pride and posturing,” she added with a laugh.

“Fine – I get it. So what did you want to discuss without your hovering husband?” Draco prodded.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re really okay. You’ve always hid your pain, Draco, and I’m one of only two people you’ve ever truly let see you at your worst. One day in the summer of sixth year comes to mind.”

She was right. After he’d been coerced and manipulated into taking the Dark Mark, Pansy had held him into the wee hours of the morning as he’d wailed through the pain. It was good to have a sister. She never judged and never made him feel like a lesser person; she was the closest friend he’d ever had. It was unspoken that the other person who’d served that role was his mother.

“I’m coping. I loved Astoria in my own way, but you know perfectly well that I was never in love with her. I miss her, but I think it’s more the companionship that I find lacking. I guess there’s just a lot of… disappointment all around.”

“And?”

“Now it’s clear that I need to remarry, but my usual choices are no longer an option.” Draco met his friend’s eyes, confusion and worry quite evident in the steely grey.

“What else? Don’t hold back on me, Draco. You know I’ll get it out of you sooner or later,” she cajoled.

He blew out a breath. “For all my life, I’ve been told, and if I’m honest, believed that anyone who wasn’t a pureblood was a lesser person. Half-bloods were fine to have as friends, but considering one for my spouse was unacceptable. ‘Mudblood’ was a term that I learned before we ever got to Hogwarts, and I’d never even met a Muggle. Until I was in my mid-teens, I thought they’d kill me for just being a wizard. Now, I’ve learned that my family’s entire existence, and my own well-being, are dependent on me being able to form a relationship with one of those people that I was conditioned to fear and revile. I can’t say that I feel as I did about them ten years ago, but being tolerant and civil is a far cry from mating with someone.” He stopped abruptly, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “This is all just… surreal.”

“So, what do you plan to do about it?”

Pansy, ever the practical one, Draco thought, at least when it comes to affairs of the heart. “I haven’t much choice. I need to find a Muggle-born witch, or worst case scenario, a Muggle, who will be willing to marry me and have my child before my thirtieth birthday.”

“What are the consequences to you if you don’t do that?”

And she boils away the excess. “We forfeit the bulk of the Malfoy fortune to a distant cousin and his family. Any marriage I have would be childless. Apart from that, not much.” His talent for sarcasm, at least, had not suffered.

“So what? Do either of those things really matter to you, Draco?”

Damned good question, Pans, he thought. He took a moment to deliberate over that, staring at the hands he’d clasped over his knees. “You know,” he finally answered, “the money doesn’t matter as much as I thought it would at one point in my life. I have enough of my own investments and inheritances from my mother’s side of the family that I’ll never go hungry. It’s more the role we play in society that matters to me now. I’ve been groomed for this my whole life. If I lose it now, who am I? If you had asked me about fathering a child a few years ago, I’d have given you the same answer that I give you now, but for a different reason. I do want to be a father, but when Astoria and I were first married, it was all about fulfilling my destiny.” He laughed without humor. “Kind of like the Muggle royal family, you know? Produce an heir and a spare. Today, I still want that child, and the responsibility is part of it, but it’s more now. When you can’t achieve such a basic, natural, human thing, it becomes consuming. I want to know what kind of man I can be, through what kind of father I will be. My parents shocked the hell out of me when they told me that they would support me in marrying a Muggle-born. I’m not foolish enough to think that there’s no dynastic motivation behind that, but I know they understood that I’m hurting for the lack of that child, not just as a symbol, but as someone I want to groom and guide and nurture. They want me to be happy as much as they want me to carry on the Malfoy line. I want that, too.”

When Draco looked up again, Pansy’s cheeks were wet, and she’d reached over to hug him “Oh, Draco, you’ve really, finally grown up.” She kissed his cheek, which was equally not-dry. “Some witch out there is going to be very lucky to have you, and you will be a fabulous daddy.”

“I feel like I still have so much to learn. If I’m so freaked out about having to mate with a Mudbl… I mean a Muggle-born – see, I can’t even remember that that’s a nasty, taboo term! – how can I build a real life with that person? Is my prejudice so ingrained that I can’t overcome it? How can I do this, Pans?”

“I think you ought to start by giving yourself a break, mate.” The voice that answered Draco’s semi-rhetorical questions was significantly deeper than he’d expected. “Hey arsehole, why are you hanging on to my wife?”

“I believe that, in fact, she is hanging on to me, arsehole,” Draco retorted, releasing his hold on Pansy to greet Blaise with a quintessential guy-hug. 

“Yeah, mate, because you’re such a loser, she has to hold you together. Find your own damned wife to keep you in one piece, why don’t you?” he teased.

“Had one of those; didn’t work out the way I expected,” Draco replied with a sardonic grin. He paused for a brief moment. “Actually, guys, that’s why I asked you to come over tonight. I know both of you are better connected than I am to the social network. I need… information and guidance.”

“No need to flatter. How can we help, Draco?”

Draco smirked at Pansy. “Since when is calling you an incorrigible gossip flattery?”

“Hey, for someone who wants our help, you’re awfully snide, Mister.”

“Okay, I give. It just wouldn’t be any fun if we didn’t take the mickey out, would it?” he reasoned. “I am serious, though. I don’t really have many – fine, any – true Muggle-born friends. The dozen or so acquaintances that I have are all married. I need to find a witch who’s available and might be convinced to give me a chance.”

“Hmm. Not an easy task. Age range?” Pansy wondered.

“Old enough to be legal and young enough to be fertile.”

Blaise arched an eyebrow. “Seriously, mate?”

“Well, maybe not literally. I’d say… five years younger or older.”

“Any preference on whether they’ve been in a previous relationship?”

“Couldn’t care less. As long as they’re not currently married, it doesn’t matter. I’m divorced, so I can’t really expect them to be free of romantic history.”

“What other preferences or requirements do you have?” Pansy asked.

“I’d prefer someone with some intelligence. I know beggars can’t be choosers, but I’d hope that they have a decent personality and not… unpleasant to look at.”

“Can we assume you’d rather not have a Millicent clone?” Blaise taunted.

That earned him a swift kick to the shin from his wife.

“Hey!”

“I’ll thank you to remember that Millie is a dear friend. She may not be the most beautiful girl in the world, but she’s always been very kind to me.”

“Regardless,” Draco reminded them, “she’s a pureblood. Automatically disqualified.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I never thought I’d ever hear the day that phrase would come out of my mouth.”

Draco’s guests were quiet for a moment, considering the criteria he’d outlined.

Finally, Pansy spoke up, but it was clear from the expression on her face that she wasn’t optimistic about Draco’s reaction. “I’m sorry to say this, Draco, but there aren’t a lot of available women who fit your specifications. There’s one who comes to mind, but I don’t think you’re going to like the idea.”

“What’s she like?”

“Well, she’s undoubtedly very smart; she finished first in her class. She’s got a sharp wit and many friends, so that probably speaks well of her personality. She’s also recently divorced. I’d say that she’s pretty in a natural, earthy way. You should also know that she has two young children from her previous marriage.”

“That could be an advantage, though. At least I’d know that she’s able to have children. Who is she? Do I know her?”

“You most certainly do, although I don’t think you’ve seen her in a while.”

“What’s her name?” Draco asked, now curious and intrigued.

“Her name is Hermione Granger.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

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Twelve weeks had passed since Hermione had kicked her bum of a husband out of the house. Harry and Ginny were encouraging her to emerge from her funk and quit moping over the man who’d treated her so abysmally. (Along the way, she’d learned that the creep had been playing around with the slaggy Miss Brown almost since the beginning of their marriage. Ron’s appetites, it seemed, were not satisfied by just one witch, no matter how accommodating she’d been to his desires.) Thus, the invitation to hang out at the Swish & Flick, a new night club that had opened in Diagon Alley, for a few hours was offered and accepted. Hermione didn’t think she was ready to beginning dating again, the slim pickings of available wizards notwithstanding, but going out for an evening with friends sounded like an enjoyable proposition. She’d arranged with Molly to have the kids stay overnight at the Burrow, and Ginny had arrived via the Floo, insisting that she was going to help her former sister-in-law “get all dolled up” for her first night out as a newly single woman.

Hermione had protested that there really wasn’t any point; she couldn’t imagine that there would be anyone there that she’d want to impress. Ginny had rejected that argument, saying that it was simply for her own self-esteem. That was a contention that was hard to refute; Merlin knew it had taken a bit of a hit with her husband’s infidelity. She’d reluctantly allowed the red-head to select her clothes (soft, sensual silk in a rich burgundy v-neck sleeveless dress that skimmed her still-trim shape and flattered her coloring), corral her hair (with the shorter cut she’d recently had, it wasn’t nearly as untamable as it had once been), and apply subtle makeup (to emphasize her pretty eyes and well-formed lips). They had giggled over the whole process much as they had done when the two were newly out of school and trying to impress their boyfriends, back when everything was bright and optimistic, when they’d been fresh from their victory over darkness. Once or twice, Hermione had drifted away into melancholy; Ginny didn’t dwell nor comment.

They had met Harry, Neville and Luna, Seamus and Hannah, and Dean and Justin just before half eight. The rest of the crew was already two drinks in, and they cajoled the new arrivals into two shots of Firewhisky apiece to “keep things even,” they’d said. Two rounds more ensured that everyone was feeling a little less pain and the laughter and conversation flowed a little more freely. When the small live band began to play covers of The Weird Sisters’ greatest hits, Justin even tore away from his lover to allow Dean to dance with Hermione for a handful of upbeat tunes. It had felt like an age since they’d all had so much fun together.

In the opposite corner of the dark pub, another group of friends imbibed and chatted. Blaise and Pansy Zabini, Theo and Daphne Nott (who were also childless after nearly six years of marriage), and Draco Malfoy had arrived together just after nine. Draco had graciously inquired about his ex-wife’s well being when his former sister-in-law arrived, but the two had, by silent assent, not spoken of her further; everyone knew that the circumstances were both difficult and beyond their control, further complicated by the similar position in which the Notts would soon find themselves, if something didn’t change for the better. The group could not help but notice their former schoolmates having a grand old time just a few tables away, and Pansy was the first to make a comment.

“Looks like the old crew is still intact,” she observed.

“Except for the King Weasel,” Blaise noted, snidely.

Daphne was insatiably curious. “Anyone know what happened between him and Granger? I heard they split up.”

All eyes fell on Mrs. Zabini; the group had every confidence that she would know, and she didn’t disappoint. “He was screwing around with that Brown slag from school and Granger kicked him out. It had apparently been going on for quite some time. Or so the rumors say.”

Theo, never one to hold back an opinion, offered his commentary. “He was fucking Brown when he had that at home? What an arse! And I’m talking about Granger, here. She grew up good.”

Draco was ever so tempted to look, but just couldn’t bring himself to give in to the urge. The last thing he needed was to be perceived as accepting the suggestion offered by Pansy and Blaise when they’d identified the new divorcee as Draco’s best prospect within the wizarding UK.

Fate had other ideas, however, when a passing patron, far too tipsy to be walking unassisted, stumbled and spilled a full tankard of ale onto Draco’s lap. The cold, wet, foamy substance soaking into his trousers forced him to stand abruptly and make a trip to the Men’s loo for a little clean-up; it was a bit too much for a quick Scourgify to handle. That trip forced him to walk past the spot where Granger and her friends were enthusiastically dancing to a particularly lively number. He had no choice; she was right in his path. And fuck him if Theo Nott wasn’t spot on in his assessment of said female’s… assets.

But she’s Granger, his brain argued. No way, no how, not in this lifetime. It was hard to admit, but the subtext was just as insistent: as much as he struggled with the idea of her, she would never have him. In the loo, he’d had to use two applications of a siphoning spell, another to dry the damp fabric, and yet another to remove the offensive odor from his good trousers. As he made his way back to their table, he noted that the dance floor had become more crowded and he lost sight of the group his friends had been curiously watching.

Fate intervened once more when he plowed directly into the very person he’d been attempting to avoid. He tried to mumble an apology without making eye contact. He tried to move away from the crowd of bouncing, weaving, swaying bodies. The universe had other ideas; the song was one of the most popular dance tunes in recent memory, and it seemed that everyone in the pub had decided to surge to the dance floor en masse. He was trapped, face to face, mere inches from Hermione Granger. He resolved to not be rude or nasty; that would damage his overall reputation, and there was clearly no need to renew any rivalry or animosity they might have had as children. It would serve no purpose.

For once in his life, at least when it came to Gryffindor-Slytherin relations, Draco Malfoy took the high road and began to move, rolling his hips as he picked up the beat. “Hi, Granger,” he drawled into her ear over the way-too-loud music, “Fancy meeting you here.”

She gasped in surprise at the sight of the man who’d been her tormentor for so many of her formative years. Recognizing that neither of them had any possibility of moving out of their position, and being just tipsy enough to not really care, Hermione shrugged and continued to dance, returning his greeting. “Malfoy, it’s been a long time.”

The music was way too loud for there to be any further conversation, but their involuntary dance had not gone unnoticed. Two Zabinis whispered to each other, and a pair of Potters arched eyebrows in surprise. Neither couple could say that they knew quite what to make of the unexpected development, but both would swear that they had a felt a tectonic shift. That could be the only rational explanation for the stunning sight of these two one-time antagonists moving in tandem before their eyes. In a sure sign of the approaching apocalypse, when the music changed and the crowd thinned, Draco was seen speaking to Hermione without sneering, lifting her hand to his lips, and dropping a swift, gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles. She was witnessed responding with a laugh, a smile, and a disbelieving head shake.

Both returned to their friends to complete the evening’s fun. Neither would have predicted what came next.

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In the comfort of Draco’s large, open sitting room, four Slytherins peppered a fifth with questions.

“I thought you said Merlin would walk the earth again before you considered Granger,” Blaise taunted, his smirk looking significantly more dastardly than one Draco could ever produce.

“Who said I ‘considered’ her for anything?” Draco pushed back.

“You asked her to dance!” Pansy observed.

“No, I didn’t.” His reply was firm and definitive.

“Oh, so she asked you to dance,” Daphne concluded.

“No, she didn’t.” There was no equivocation in his response.

“Then how in Salazar’s name did you two end up practically screwing on the dance floor?” Theo accused.

“We weren’t even touching, and we were both fully clothed, so how could we be screwing?” Draco retorted, beginning to get a little annoyed with the Inquisition Squad. He could easily clear up the whole thing, but it was, he decided, much more amusing to tease them with nothing than to give in to his momentary irritation.

“Hips generally only move like that when you’re going deep, mate,” Blaise teased, “or when you want to be going deep.”

“Whose hips?” He resolved to drag this out as long as possible, just because he could.

“Yours and hers. There was enough hip movement for somebody to get off at least a couple of times.” Blaise earned a punch to the arm from his wife for that smart remark.

“Must you really be that crude? Tease all you like, but have a little respect for the ladies.”

“Where? Who?” Blaise made a big show of searching the room.

That earned him a stinging hex. He hadn’t even seen the wand under his wife’s folded arms.

Draco watched, grateful for a few seconds’ reprieve while his best friend and her husband sparred. It was not to last long, however.

“So, you claim that neither of you asked the other to dance. How, then, did you end up hip to hip with her?” Theo questioned, sounding every bit the aggressive Solicitor that he was in his day job.

Draco shrugged, maintaining his disinterested mien. “Just happened, I guess.”

“How does something like that just happen? You accidentally start to dirty dance at the same time she also accidentally starts to dirty dance, while you both just happen to be facing each other with less than three inches of space between you?” Incredulity, thy name is Daphne Nott.

The blond wizard shrugged once more. “Close enough.” He coughed to hide a laugh that he couldn’t prevent from escaping for every Galleon at Gringotts. He became Pansy’s next victim. “Ow!”

“The next one will be worse. Spill it, Malfoy. How did you end up dancing with Granger?” Pansy was getting annoyed now. It generally wasn’t a good idea to allow her to progress past that into full-blown angry. Draco decided it was time to end the group’s misery and speculation.

“I wasn’t lying. Neither of us requested a dance of the other. It actually was sort of accidental, but I decided to not make an issue of it.” He paused as he saw more bewilderment than comprehension. “Okay, what really happened was that when I was coming out of the loo after cleaning up the ale on my trousers, I literally bumped into her. Totally unintentional and accidental, I swear.” He placed a hand over his heart, as if to demonstrate his sincerity. “The band was playing that dance cut and everybody seemed to come to the floor at once. I couldn’t move; I had absolutely nowhere to go. So I figured, why not? I said hello to her, she said hello to me, we danced, and I thanked her. End of story.”

Pansy and Blaise exchanged the same glance that Theo and Daphne did. “So when are you going to see her again?” Since all four had spoken in unison, Draco only had to answer once.

“Uh, never?”

“You didn’t make a date with her?” Pansy shrieked her disappointment.

“Of course not. Why the hell would I?”

“Mate, if you two can move together like that when you’re both vertical and three-quarters to pissed, the sex would be outrageous.”

“Blaise, I’m not looking to get laid. I’m trying to find a wife.”

“Exactly my point! Can you imagine tapping that every night for the next forty years? Why wouldn’t you want a wife who sets your blood to boiling?” Blaise sounded just a little too enthusiastic on the point for his wife’s liking, and it earned him another stinging hex, after which he summoned her wand, tucking it beside his own in the deep wand pocket in his trousers.

“Look, I’ll freely acknowledge that she’s not bad looking, but with our history, there’s just no way it would ever work out. I’m going to need to expand my search beyond Great Britain,” he concluded with a put-upon sigh.

“No!” Pansy said firmly.

“Why do you care, Pansy?”

“Because I love you and I actually think you and she could be compatible if you could get past your childhood crap.”

“What makes you say that?” Draco was curious about what Pansy seemed to see that he clearly didn’t.

She starting ticking off her fingers as she spoke. “First, you’re both ridiculously smart. Neither of you would be bored with the other. Second, it’s pretty clear that you have at least a little physical attraction to her, and it didn’t seem like she thought you were heinous, either. Third, she’s got a great reputation in the wizarding world. For Morgana’s sake, she’s a heroine with an Order of Merlin, First Class. It really doesn’t get much better than that. Fourth, we know she’s generally a well-liked person, even if she wasn’t terribly nice to us. I can excuse and understand that, because we weren’t terribly nice to her. Fifth, she’s not married or in a relationship. Sixth, I’d bet every gem I own that she wouldn’t care at all about your money, and last but not least, we know she can have children.” She stared at him pointedly. “Think about it, Draco. You could do one hell of a lot worse.”

Draco was silent as Pansy corralled her husband and the Notts and activated the Floo. The flat’s remaining occupant absently waved goodbye to a completely empty room.

00000000000000000000000000000000

Harry offered to escort Hermione home after their outing to the Swish & Flick; she was marginally too soused to safely Apparate without splinching, and Ginny had been concerned she wouldn’t articulate her address clearly enough for the Floo network to interpret and deliver her to the proper place. Thus, the ever-chivalrous Mister Potter had wrapped her in a brotherly hug and with desire, determination, and destination in mind, deposited both of them safely in Hermione’s foyer. The wards easily recognized him as a family member and allowed him to release her security measures, ensuring perfect dance-floor-to-front-door delivery. He made sure she had comfortably settled on her sofa, and went to her bathroom to retrieve a sobering potion. While she wasn’t thoroughly drunk by any stretch of the imagination, she was just tipsy enough that he preferred not to leave her in that condition alone.

“Drink up, my dearest sister, because I can’t leave until you do,” he teased.

The instant the potion hit her bloodstream, she was as lucid and sober as Professor McGonagall during N.E.W.T.s.

“What’s the matter? Is your wife eagerly awaiting your return?” Hermione teased right back.

“You bet your sweet, uh, thing. So go get changed and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“I thought Ginny was waiting?”

“Yeah, well, we all have to make sacrifices now and again. Besides, I want to talk to you about something. Tea is required.”

When she opened her mouth to speak, he shushed her immediately. “Not until you’ve changed and the tea is ready. Get.”

“And you call me a bossy-pants,” she grumbled. She did, however, comply with his directive.

Ten minutes later, Hermione entered her kitchen wearing a comfortable set of lightweight turquoise fleece running pants and a matching zip jacket. She pulled out a chair and joined Harry at the table while he poured her tea, adding the one teaspoon of sugar and splash of milk that she preferred.

“You take such good care of me, Harry,” she said in thanks, stretching from her seat to kiss him on the cheek.

He shrugged. “No more than you’ve ever done for me, love.”

“So, what is it that you wanted to talk about that couldn’t wait until morning?”

He ran fingers through his perpetually messy mop of black hair. “It’s more that I wanted this conversation to be private than that it couldn’t wait.”

“From Ginny?”

“Well, she is Ron’s sister, and while right now I’m certain she’d rather toss him back than keep him, she’ll always have some loyalty, even when he’s been the biggest prat on the planet.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“It’s just that I want you to understand that, even though Ron is my brother-in-law and will always be a friend, I will do everything in my power to make sure that you are happy and taken care of. That includes putting your needs ahead of Ron’s. If I had known…”

“I know, Harry, and I appreciate the thought. I am a big girl, though. Even if I got hurt, I’m still strong and I can still take pretty good care of myself. It’s nice to know that you’ve got my back, and I won’t ever refuse your caring, but there will be things I need to do and decisions I need to make.”

“Even decisions about having another relationship sometime in the future?”

“Well, of course that’s a possibility some day. Can’t imagine it would be soon, though.” She shrugged and sipped her tea. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw you with Malfoy tonight. On the dance floor.”

She laughed heartily. “That was pretty funny, actually. There he was, all of a sudden, bumping in to me. I can’t remember the last time I saw him; it had to be at least three or four years ago.”

“You seemed to be… enjoying each other’s company.”

“Oh, Harry,” she scoffed, “it was just a dance. He said hello to me, I said hello to him, we danced, and he said thank you. End of story.”

“Did you know he’s also recently divorced?”

“I think I heard something about that, yeah. A marriage contract issue, if I’m not mistaken.”

“He’s probably out looking for someone to, uh, warm his cold nights.”

“Geez, Harry. We’re not twelve any more. Besides, if Malfoy wants to get laid, I’m sure he can find an easier target than me. And I’m quite certain I would be on the bottom of that list, no matter how you look at it. Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting a little… warming.” She roared with laughter at Harry’s scandalized expression. Just to tweak him a little more, she added, “There’s no doubt that he knows how to move his hips, though. The man’s got rhythm.”

“Merlin, please don’t tell me you’re attracted to Malfoy!”

“Not in any appreciable way. I mean, he’s not a bad-looking man. Even in school, if he hadn’t been such a git, I had to admit that he was easy on the eyes. It’s not like there’s any chance of the two of us even becoming friends, so I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head about it, Harry.”

“How much did you have to drink tonight, Hermione? Because I think you need a little more sobering potion. You only talk like this when you’re half-pissed.”

“I didn’t have any more to drink than you did. I’m completely sober. See?” She extended her hand to show its perfect steadiness as proof. “I’m just feeling… delightfully mellow and relaxed.”

“By the way, I outweigh you by eighty pounds, at least. Drink for drink, that’ll make a big difference.”

“Harry, I don’t know what you’re worried about. The likelihood of me even running into Malfoy again is just about nil. I’m not one of his little pureblood princesses and we don’t run in the same social circles. It was one dance. A nice dance, mind you, but that’s all it was. I probably won’t see him for another three years, so chill!”

“I’m worried because I saw the way he looked at you.”

“And how was that?”

“Like he wanted to eat you up, bite by bite.”

“Oooh, Harry, now you’re going to make me blush!” she teased again, laughing at the absurdity of his paranoia.

“Hermione, just be careful with him. He’s not nearly the complete arse he was in school, but he’s not exactly…progressive, either. I know what men want, and it’s not necessarily good for women.”

“Harry! Will you listen to yourself? Who’s being bigoted and narrow-minded now? I am a grown woman and I will make my own decisions, including whether, when and who I decide to have sex with. I am twenty-eight, not sixteen. So, as much as I love you, brother dear, butt out.”

Harry looked a little stunned and thought for a moment about what Hermione had said. She wasn’t wrong. He had been a bit judgmental about Malfoy’s motives, and it had only been the one dance, even if it had been… quite the display. “You’re right; I’m sorry. It’s certainly possible that Malfoy had no ulterior motive and it was just a, uh, nice dance between two people making peace. Who knows? Maybe his divorce has changed the way he thinks about things. I shouldn’t have been so hasty.”

Hermione stood up from the kitchen table, prompting Harry to do the same. He was being dismissed. She dragged him into as much of a crushing hug as someone could deliver with an eighty-pound weight deficit, and whispered in his ear. “I know you care, Harry, and that you’re trying to look out for me after everything that Ron did. I appreciate that more than you know. But I do need to live a little. I’ll always be the same responsible Hermione, always trying to be the perfect mum and the most productive employee, but I am a woman, too. Someday, if I find the right person, and if he’s good for me and to me, I’ll want to let him in to my life. You’re going to need to be there to support my decisions, but you can’t make them for me. I love you, Harry. Now go home to your wife. She hates it when you wake her up to have sex, so if you want to get lucky tonight, get a move on.” She pushed him away toward the Floo with a grin.

“Did she seriously tell you that?” Harry asked, incredulously.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “She’s my sister. What do you think?”

Harry shook his head, dumbfounded. There really was no effective response. “Goodnight, Hermione. I love you, too.” He kissed her cheek, tossed the Floo powder into the flames, and called out his address, “Potter Place.” In a flare of green, he was gone, and Hermione was now alone with her thoughts. After everything that Harry had said to her, she couldn’t help but wonder, why had Draco Malfoy danced with her? And why had he called her “Hermione” when he whispered his goodbye?


	2. Chapter 2

Draco sat in that chair for nearly an hour after his friends departed. Pansy’s list of Granger’s “qualifications” had been a surprising catalogue of factors that were nearly identical to the attributes he’d listed when describing the woman who would be his next wife and, if the Fates were kind, the mother of his children. With all the animosity and bad blood (no pun intended) between them, he couldn’t see how they could make it work, regardless of her near-perfect personal resume. Finally determining that there was nothing to do about it at three o’clock in the morning, he decided to drag his tired body to bed; morning – or early afternoon – would be time enough to have the two conversations that he thought might help him make a decision about whether to consider Ms. Hermione Granger as a viable option.

He used the loo and brushed his teeth, remembering that there were few things as unpleasant as the taste in one’s mouth after a night of drinking, then stripped off his clothes, crawling into bed naked, as was his usual habit. Draco was sure he’d quickly succumb to his mental and physical exhaustion. While he did fall asleep quickly, his slumber was fitful and restless, filled with dreams. First, and most vividly, he dreamed of dancing the night away with a dark-haired beauty, then a hazy, ill-defined conversation that escalated into an argument which ended in a passionate claiming of lips and tongues. There seemed to be a passage of time in his dream world, and he saw himself holding a tiny, dark haired baby, its pink lips puckering against the bottle he offered. Another passage of time drew him to a scene where a small tot ran through a garden, giggling while chasing butterflies, as he stood with his arms wrapped around a woman, her belly swollen and round. She leaned back against his chest and they both watched the toddler, laughter bubbling when the butterfly chase was suddenly abandoned in favor of the pursuit of a frog. He couldn’t see her face; that made him sad. Draco tossed and turned, sheets becoming tangled in his legs. He awoke abruptly and knew there would be no further rest. When he peered at the cuckoo clock on the wall, he calculated that he’d only slept – if his restlessness could qualify – barely five hours.

Kicking his legs free of the tangles, he pushed himself out of bed and into the bathroom. The heaviness between his legs reminded him that he had a medical directive to deal with; it had been four days since he’d ejaculated last. He sighed. At least that wasn't the worst way to begin a day. He set the taps in the shower to the appropriate temperature and stepped in under the spray, creating lather with the soap bar in his hands. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to think of the dark-haired beauty who had invaded his dreams and failing miserably. A few seconds and a few strokes had his penis fully erect and his imagination conjuring the witch he pinned against the shower’s walls, thrusting into her warmth and wetness, rolling his hips in exactly the same way he’d done the night before, on the dance floor. The image paired with his firm, insistent stroking was more than enough; his orgasm was powerful and long, causing his knees to buckle and ripping a deep groan from his chest. “Shit,” he said to the empty room. “Pansy, I’m going to have to kill you for planting that idea in my head,” he muttered. He finished his shower in short order, drying off, shaving, and brushing his teeth in record time.

There was no way that Pansy would be awake yet; she regularly slept till ten no matter what the evening’s activities and schedule. He would meet with his other confidante first. Draco selected a pair of black trousers and a white oxford shirt and dressed quickly. If he hurried, he’d be able to have breakfast at his destination rather than alone.

When Draco arrived five minutes later at Malfoy Manor, his mother was descending the sweeping staircase, looking every bit the wealthy aristocrat she had been raised to be. Her only concession to surprise at seeing her son so early in the morning was a barely-perceptible blink. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning, my sweet?”

“I’ve been thinking, Mother, and I need some advice. I hoped you could spare some time for me this morning.”

“Of course, dear. I was just going to have a little breakfast. Won’t you join me?” she invited.

“That would be nice,” he replied. “Uh, is Father home?”

“No, he left about thirty minutes ago. He had some business to tend to at Gringotts. I don’t expect him home for at least an hour.”

“Good,” he answered, and then tried to backtrack as soon as he realized how bad that had sounded. “I mean, uh, it’s good that business is good, uh…”

Narcissa laughed. “It’s fine, Draco. You’re allowed to want to have some private time with your mother. Silly thing,” she added, tapping her finger on the tip of his nose, as she’d done so often when he was a child. “So, what’s on your mind?” she asked, getting right to the heart of the matter. The breakfast she’d requested, poached eggs on rye toast with a rasher of bacon, appeared at her plate.

Draco reached for an almond scone while a house-elf poured tea for both of them. “I went out last evening with Pansy, Blaise, Theo, and Daphne, and we encountered some old schoolmates at the pub. One of them was someone that Pansy keeps prodding me to consider as a solution to our little… situation.”

“Who is that, dear?”

“Before I tell you that, I want to share with you what Pansy said about her ‘qualifications’ for the role.”

“Certainly, if you feel that’s helpful.” She waved a hand, encouraging him to speak.

“We were year-mates at Hogwarts, so obviously you know that means she’s a Muggle-born. She, like me, is recently divorced, and though there was some scandal involved, the fault was plainly not hers. She is… attractive and well-liked, and very well-respected. She has two children by her ex-husband, who was also a pureblood, so I know she’s capable of conceiving. She is extraordinarily powerful, and she was the only person who beat me in O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.” Draco stopped speaking when he saw his mother’s eyes go wide and her hand lift to stall his monologue.

“Has this young woman ever… visited this house?” she asked, a slight tremor to her voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Miss Granger, isn’t it?”

“On the nose, Mother.”

She sat back in her chair, a rare occurrence which displayed her unease. “She sounds perfect in nearly every way but one.”

“Yeah. She hates me.”

“Draco, I’m sure it would be more accurate to say ‘hated.’ Your school days were a very long time ago. Maybe she’ll have revised her opinion of you,” she offered with a hint of optimism.

“For what reason, Mother? Until last night, I hadn’t seen her in at least four years. She’d have no reason to temper her poor opinion of me.”

“What happened when you saw her last night?”

“I bumped into her, literally, on the way back from the loo. We greeted each other politely, and we had one dance. I thanked her, then rejoined my friends.”

“Was she… amenable?”

“She was very nice. She was also a bit tipsy, and the floor was so packed with people that she really had no choice but to dance with me.”

“How did you depart?”

“The way a gentleman always does. I told her I enjoyed the dance, I complimented her ability, I kissed her knuckles, and I said goodbye.”

“Was the dance a waltz, a foxtrot, maybe a tango?” Narcissa asked, seeking to understand the young lady’s training. She was flabbergasted at Draco’s reaction.

He roared with laughter. “Oh, Mother, not even close! We were at the Swish & Flick, not at a dance hall or ball. It was closer to a… rumba.”

“Even better! A Latin dance of love and seduction. You say she responded well?”

“Again, Mother, as well as could be expected under the circumstances.”

“Hmmm. And Pansy has been encouraging you to pursue Miss Granger? She feels that the two of you would be compatible?”

“So she says.”

“Fine. I will send her an owl later today. She and I will have a little chat and we will craft a strategy to approach the lady. Now, what else can you tell me about her?”

Forty minutes later, Narcissa had a better understanding both of who Hermione Granger was as a person, and why Draco might be interested in her. She could see why Pansy had been so vehement about the suitability of their former classmate. She postulated that, if the young woman had been a pureblood instead of a Muggle-born, Draco probably would have been quite taken with her years earlier, though she kept that thought to herself.

Ninety minutes after Draco left, she received a reply from Pansy and was now awaiting her arrival, scheduled for one o’clock. They’d have a light lunch in the garden while figuring out Draco’s future.

At five minutes ‘til one, Pansy arrived in the main Floo off the grand foyer. She was greeted by Narcissa Malfoy with all the affection of a long-lost relative. The two walked arm-in-arm through the halls and out a set of French doors, where a white-painted wrought iron table was draped with a floral linen tablecloth and set with fine white china edged in platinum. Baccarat crystal goblets were filled with freshly made lemonade. A cold chicken salad was held in stasis on a sterling silver platter, covered by a domed sterling silver lid. A basket of freshly-baked breads and rolls sat to the right of the platter.

The two witches nibbled on their lunch and focused the bulk of their attention and energy on the topic at hand: how to best ensure that Draco could successfully woo Hermione Granger.

“As I see it, Pansy, your observations about two options are correct,” Narcissa concluded, “and they both have inherent risks.”

“Option One would be the lesser, I think. With both of them being newly single, there’s something relatively normal about Draco seeking companionship with her. If they can find their way to being friends, then he could start to woo her more seriously,” Pansy opined.

“I agree there’s less immediate concern with that approach, but my concern is the time factor. It’s been a little over four months since Draco and Astoria divorced. He has two years and eight months to get married and have his new bride conceive. There’s no guarantee that they’d have an easy time getting pregnant, regardless of the Healer’s opinion. I’m concerned that he’ll run out of time.”

“I agree that’s a concern, and although I really don’t know Granger beyond reputation, I’m nearly certain that Option Two would be shot down like a Hippogriff gone wild,” Pansy stated. “Of course, the other risk with Option One is that, if she found out he had a hidden agenda, it would end things rather quickly.”

“I’ve always heard that she’s such a ‘bleeding heart.’ You don’t think she could be persuaded to ‘help’ Draco with his problem?”

“Oh please, Narcissa. What would be her motivation? They barely know each other, and her opinion of Draco is based on the utter prat he was to her for so long. Can’t say I blame her, to be fair. Draco’s thinking may have shifted since the war, but he’s never been especially close to any Muggle-borns. She certainly hasn’t had any opportunity to see that he can be civil and have good working relationships with them. And if we’re being honest here, just a few weeks ago, he was fairly horrified by the idea of having to mate with one.”

“Well, she wouldn’t ever have to know that part, would she?” Narcissa noted.

“True, as long as Draco doesn’t flinch whenever he has to touch her.” Pansy took a sip of her lemonade, trying to hide her slightly evil grin. “Although, he didn’t seem to have any difficulty with some very close-quarters dancing last night.”

“Right, so he admitted to me as well. And that’s why I think there’s more hope for Option One; he has at least some degree of physical attraction to her, and she to him, if he’s been honest in his description of their encounter.”

The younger witch was silent for a long moment, her brow furrowed in deep thought. As a new possibility took hold, her eyes lit up along with her broad grin. “Narcissa, I think I’ve got an idea,” Pansy beamed. “We have a place to start!”

“And you think it’s something Draco will accept?” his mother wondered.

“Well, I’m quite hopeful he will, but I’m not going to leave that up to him. I have a couple of Floo calls to make to put this in motion, but Draco and Granger aren’t going to know what hit them.” The two witches laughed heartily, spending another half-hour together before the younger left to begin her behind-the-scenes manipulation. They had agreed that the plan was ambitious, and had several possible pitfalls, (particularly as it required cooperation from someone with whom Pansy had had a difficult prior acquaintance) but it seemed the most likely path to success, unlikely alliances aside.

Two hours, three Floo calls, and one headache later, the basic plan was in place. Now, Pansy had only to wait for everyone to keep their promises and do their parts.

0000000000000000000000000000

Draco had been just a little surprised when his mother had sent an owl message to him after they’d spent a good part of the morning together, until he read its contents. While it was clear that the two witches to whom he was closest were now in cahoots, the last thing he’d expected was an etiquette lesson.

He read her note with interest and amusement:

_Dearest Draco,_

_Since it seems that you’ve determined that Miss Granger may be a potential candidate for your affections, it would be appropriate for you to follow some of the old traditions in your interactions. I recognize that your meeting last evening was not planned, but you should treat it as though it were. Send her a Thank You note for the time you spent together, and possibly a token of a floral bouquet._

_It seems that dear Pansy does support your pursuit of Miss Granger and is willing to assist us in this endeavor. I’m certain that she will contact you very soon with further details. I suggest that you take advantage of her aid._

_Please do drop by for brunch on Sunday. We’ll serve at 11:00 a.m._

_With love,_

_Mother_

Then again, Mother, he thought, what makes you think that Granger will respond to the old ways? His upbringing was rather ingrained, though, and the suggestion his mother had made was something he certainly would have done with any witch he was dating; he’d without doubt done the same for Astoria. Realizing that the gesture was unlikely to do any damage, Draco penned a note and ordered an arrangement of campanula, dark pink roses, and olive greens to be sent to the lady’s home. If for nothing more than pure entertainment value, he was deadly curious about her response. For all his amusement, Draco had been thinking about his earlier conversation with his mother for a solid two hours. It had prompted some… radical thinking. He resolved to allow it to just percolate for a bit.

Shortly after his “thank you” tokens were sent, Draco’s Floo chimed. He was unsurprised to see the face of Pansy Zabini in the flames.

“Move out of the way, love, I’m coming through,” she commanded.

He arched an eyebrow at the woman’s temerity, but stepped aside to allow her entry nonetheless. “Won’t you come in for a visit, Pans?” he drawled sarcastically.

“Hush up, you. We have work to do,” she told him with two sharp pokes to his chest.

“Ow! Trim your claws, woman.” Draco rubbed at the spot just below his clavicle that she’d attacked.

She glared at him, an expression that never failed to instill at least a little dread in any wizard to whom it was targeted. “If you want my help, Draco Malfoy, you’ll hold your tongue and do as I say.”

Feeling extraordinarily juvenile at that moment, the blond actually stuck out his tongue and grasped it between his thumb and forefinger, earning him another poke.

“Prat.”

“Bitch.”

“Since we both clearly know who and what we’re dealing with, shall we dispense with the introductions and do something productive?” Pansy imperiously offered, though the smirk she’d been desperately trying to hide chose just that moment to break through.

The two shared a laugh and a hug, and Draco ushered her to a seat in the kitchen, where he prepared tea.

“I heard from Mother. She tells me that you’ve concocted some grand scheme to get me into Granger’s good graces.”

“Well, sort of. We’ve formulated a plan that will allow you the opportunity to earn her interest. As you well know, there are no guarantees. I have, however, been able to secure an ally of sorts in the opposite’s camp. Your job will be to show up where and when I tell you and to be your not-so-usual charming self.”

“And who is this ally?” Draco queried.

“For now, that’s none of your beeswax. I simply ensured that an appropriate person understood that you have developed an interest in mending fences and, specifically, apologizing to some people you may have wronged in the past. Just be at the Swish & Flick again tonight at quarter after nine, and be prepared to grovel and/or dance, whichever the situation seems to warrant,” she instructed.

“Am I to assume that a certain brunette witch will also be there?”

“That’s the thinking and intention.”

Draco sighed. “I really hate manipulation, just so you know.”

“This is not manipulation; it’s orchestration. There’s a big difference,” she reasoned. “And you’re the king of manipulation, so you have no room to talk, Mister Slytherin.”

“To be more precise, then, I hate to be the target of manipulation,” he clarified.

“I know; I know: what’s good for the goose, blah, blah, blah…” she teased. “That’s rich.”

“Fine. So I need to be there tonight bearing a posy of viscaria, ferns and blue periwinkle?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“I already sent flowers today.”

“Really? What did you send?” Pansy asked eagerly.

“A bouquet of campanula, dark pink roses, and olive greens.”

“Hmm. Gratitude and peace. Not a bad start,” she complimented. “Do you think she’ll have a clue?”

“Are you kidding? This is Granger we’re talking about. She’ll have every last blossom tested, analyzed and thoroughly vetted. Besides, I sent a note with them. Her homework has been done for her this time, but she’ll get the message.”

“Draco, I didn’t give you enough credit. There may be a romantic bone in your body after all.”

“Well, that, and a mother who drilled it into me for more years than I care to remember, thank you very much,” he admitted.

“Well, whoever had the idea, it can’t hurt to pave the way.”

“I’m happy to pave the way, but the question is, to where?”

“That really depends on you. How committed are you to the idea?”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it? Since last night, and after talking with Mother this morning, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hey! I’m being serious here. What if we admitted to ourselves that they really were right all along? That we were the ones who were completely twisted in our thinking? I’ve been adding up every piece of evidence I can think of since we got back last night, and as much as the expediency of the situation pushes me toward Granger, or someone like her…”

“Even I can admit there’s really no one like Granger…”

“Fine, but theoretically… we purebloods have literally screwed ourselves into a corner. There’s nowhere for us to go. We have failed ourselves and our society miserably with our short-sighted behavior. I’ll freely admit that I played my own part in that, but why should we perpetuate our failures just for the sake of tradition that has ultimately contributed to the veritable collapse of life as we lived it for more than a millennium?”

“Are you feeling all right, Draco? Where’s my self-centered snob of a best friend?”

“He’s spent the last twelve hours examining his conscience and his future, and found the former lacking and the latter ready for a substantial re-write.”

“So, what do we do? Throw ourselves on their mercy, beg forgiveness, and hope for a share of the crumbs? Or do we go the route of that orchestration that allows us to achieve our aims while keeping our own counsel?”

“That’s the point, Pans. I think if we want to achieve our aims, not just as individuals but as a culture, we don’t have much choice but to honestly re-think our preconceived ideas and how badly they’ve served us. We can still be true to our inherent ambitious nature; in fact, if we approach this right, we could be leaders at the forefront of a new resurgence of the wizarding world. But the path we take must now be walked with people who are not exactly like us. We may have to both find and create common ground that we’ve always thought couldn’t exist.”

“When did you become so philosophical and idealistic, Draco?”

“Since I started considering the very real consequences of my own mortality and legacy. I’ve gone along with practices that weren’t entirely square with my observations to keep peace in my family for far too long. I need to make my own mark and be my own man. This,” he bared his left forearm, displaying its modified marking, “is not what I want to be remembered for,” he added solemnly.

Pansy stared at him for a long moment, apparently weighing what he’d said against what she saw in his eyes. “Sometimes, even after all the years I’ve known you, you surprise the hell out of me, Draco Malfoy. I’ll think about what you said and… ensure that whatever I do will be in keeping with both the spirit and the goals you’ve talked about. I have to go, though, so you’re on your own for now. We’ll see you at the Swish & Flick just after nine.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, poked him once more, just because she could, and activated the Floo to take her home.

Draco was left shaking his head and absently rubbing the sore spot on his chest. This, he thought, was going to be an interesting evening.

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The delivery of a note and flowers at Hermione’s house was unexpected. She was puttering around, doing chores in advance of her children returning in the next hour with their grandmother, when an enormous eagle owl carrying the substantial burden had appeared at her kitchen window.

The blossoms were magnificent, and she inhaled the fragrant aroma deeply before placing the arrangement into a large but simple crystal vase. The card had been what had really floored her. It read:

_Dear Hermione,_

_Please accept my gift of flowers as thanks for the dance we shared last night. It was a lovely surprise to see you again after so many years. I hope that we may have the opportunity to meet again soon, on peaceful and happy terms._

_My best regards,_

_Draco A. Malfoy_

Knock me down with a feather, she thought. She concluded that he was at least attempting to be courteous and civil. That he’d even remembered their dance was a surprise; the acknowledgement was positively stunning. She resolved to chalk this up to an old rivalry being laid to rest and thought nothing more of it until her erstwhile sister-in-law appeared via Apparition in her foyer.

“Hermione! Where are you?” Ginny called out as she made her way into the kitchen.

“Hey, Ginny. What brings you here? Did Molly send the kids back with you?” she wondered, looking around the woman to see where her children were hiding.

“No, and Mum’s going to keep them again tonight,” she announced.

“Oh, really? And why is that?” Hermione asked, crossing her arms over her chest with a bit of impatience.

“Because we’re going out again. We had such fun last night that Harry wants to get everyone together again this evening. He says it was good for you, and I can’t disagree. So, your darling children will spend one more night being spoiled by their grandparents.”

Hermione eyed the younger witch suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

“Me? Nothing!” she swore with her hand raised in promise. “Hey, who sent the flowers? Very nice!”

“I’ll give you two guesses, and if the first one isn’t ‘Draco Malfoy,’ you can try again.”

“No, he didn’t,” she answered breathily.

“Yes, he did. And he wrote a very sweet note. Seems like the pureblood scion is trying to make peace.”

“So, did he ask you out?”

“No, and I sincerely doubt he will. I think he’s just trying to apologize for being an arse to us, in his own way.”

“Well, there may be some truth to that, but the flowers and note weren’t sent to all of us, now, were they?”

“And I would argue that he was probably nastier to me than nearly anyone. Maybe he's just going to work his way down the list, from worst to least,” Hermione offered by way of explanation, recognizing even in her own denial the weakness of her argument.

“Hmm. Maybe. But he’s also single now, and you must admit that, regardless of how much of an arse he is, that arse is mighty fine-looking. Couldn’t hurt to have a little fun.” Ginny laughed and wiggled her eyebrows.

“Yes, he is a reasonably attractive man, but I’m not interested in playing ‘hide the salami’ with Draco Malfoy. You know that’s all he’s probably after.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Scuttlebutt has it that the reason he left Astoria was that he was looking for ‘more’ in a marriage. What that is, I couldn’t tell you. But it seems that the ferret is getting deeper in his old age.”

“They were an arranged match, weren’t they?”

“Yes, as were several others as we were coming out of the war. There are a fair handful of them who have divorced in the last year or two, so I wonder if they’re thinking about the wisdom of not marrying for love. I’m sure you’ve also heard about the problems many of them have had in delivering healthy children.”

“That’s been an on-going discussion for more than a decade. The high incidence of squibs, birth defects, and still-births in purebloods was one of the arguments the Ministry made for mixing with Half-bloods and Muggle-borns before the war. It seemed that the warnings were mostly ignored.”

“Yes, to their detriment.”

“Did Malfoy and his wife have any children?” Hermione wondered.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Ginny confirmed.

“Hmm. I wonder if that’s what caused their break-up. I’d bet that if he doesn’t have kids, his family would effectively disown him,” Hermione postulated.

“Knowing them, it would need to be pureblooded children, though. Where is Draco going to find another unmarried pureblood witch? There aren’t any that I know of within a hundred miles.”

Hermione was suddenly feeling very uneasy. “You don’t think… Nah. Never mind. That’s just way beyond crazy.”

“What?”

“Is Malfoy on the prowl for wife-cum-baby-maker number two?”

Ginny laughed aloud. “I’m sure that’s possible, but seriously, Hermione, you’d be the very last one on his list.”

“Exactly. So why is he sending me notes and flowers?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Maybe you’ll just have to ask him the next time you see him.”

“With any luck, it’ll be another four years before that happens.”

“Why? I thought you had a nice time with him last night.”

“Where did you get that idea? We had one dance.” Hermione looked at her as though she’d grown another nose.

“Just noticed that you two danced rather well together, and you were both laughing and smiling.”

“So? What was I supposed to do, hex him on the dance floor? Besides, we had both been drinking, thus our mutual state of relaxation and acceptance.”

Ginny guffawed. “Do you listen to yourself sometimes, Hermione? Really? So if we were to keep both of you tipsy and doing the vertical mamba, you might have a cordial relationship. Is that your conclusion?” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Well, I’m sure there are other circumstances under which we could be civil to each other. I just can’t think of what they might be, at the moment.”

“You, my dear sister, are priceless.” She finished the tea that Hermione had poured for her twenty minutes earlier. “So, come to our house through the Floo around eight, and we’ll all go over together.” She looked at the cuckoo clock over the sink. “I’ve got errands to run, so I’m going to scoot out of here. I’ll see you in a few hours. Dress like you mean it,” she warned as she stepped into the Floo.

“Mean what?” Hermione called to the already-departed witch.

0000000000000000000000000000000

As crowded as the Swish & Flick had been on Friday night, it was significantly more packed on any given Saturday. This was both the reason and the methodology for phase one of Pansy and Narcissa’s plan to aid Draco in getting access to the witch they thought might be “the one” for his next steps in life. If nothing else, they’d agreed, developing cordial relationships with the former Gryffindor group would allow Draco better chances of meeting other witches, should his pursuit of Hermione Granger crash and burn like a broom afire. The war heroes were notoriously well-connected in progressive circles, which included Half-bloods, those who had once been known as Blood Traitors, and most importantly, Muggle-borns. 

As agreed, the Potters, Longbottoms, Finnigans, and Ms. Granger arrived first and secured a slightly larger than strictly necessary table on the promise that the Thomas-Finch-Fletchleys and “a few other friends” might be joining them throughout the evening.

The first group settled in, had a drink, and chatted a bit before the really loud music was likely to begin in an hour or so. If Hermione noticed that both Harry and Ginny seemed to be watching the entrance intently, she didn’t comment. Their reasons for the close scrutiny, however, couldn’t have been more different. One was anticipating the arrival of someone in particular; the other was dreading the possibility that a certain person might stride through the door.

“Did I tell you that you made a perfect choice of dress tonight, Hermione?” Ginny asked for the third time.

“Yes, Ginny, you might have mentioned it. I’m very glad you like the black chiffon dress that I’ve worn in your presence at least a half dozen times,” Hermione reminded her.

“I know, it’s just that it looks really good on you. Really emphasizes all your best attributes,” Mrs. Potter complimented.

“Must be the halter style. It shows off my shoulders. I have to say, I kind of like my shoulders.”

“As well you should. They’re very nice shoulders,” she agreed. Turning to her husband, Ginny prodded, “Harry, doesn’t Hermione have nice shoulders?”

“Uh, what?”

“Hermione’s shoulders – aren’t they nice?”

“Oh, yes. Very nice shoulders. They’re very… square, not at all droopy,” Harry noted, not really grasping what the hell his wife was getting at.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes and taking a long drink of her red wine. She mumbled into the glass, “At least they aren’t talking about my breasts.”

As luck would have it, that was the exact moment that a second group of Hogwarts alumni approached their table.

“What was that about your breasts, Granger?” a voice whispered into her ear.

That drawl could only belong to one person. Fuck, Hermione thought. “Mister Malfoy, what a surprise to see you again, so soon,” she offered, now thinking that she was totally clear on what the group was doing out for a second night in a row. The only question was who had set her up. She had her suspicions. “And I said ‘vests,’” she lied. “We were talking about clothing.”

“Of course, my mistake and my apologies,” he allowed, not believing her for even a heartbeat. He had, after all, been bending to offer a greeting when she’d spoken. 

Pansy took the opportunity of the momentary lull afforded her and greeted the group. “It’s nice to see former classmates enjoying themselves. So many of us have scattered throughout the UK that we don’t get together often.”

She made a show of looking around the terribly crowded club. “It appears that we’ve all had the same idea tonight. Well, we should be off to find a table. It was nice to see all of you.” She smiled and nodded pleasantly.

“We’ve got room here, if you’d like to join us,” a male voice was heard over the din.

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise at Harry’s invitation, but she held her tongue.

“Oh, really? Well, if you’re sure…” Pansy hedged, failing completely in sounding like there was any hesitation on her part. The first group squeezed in to make sufficient room for the three new arrivals, Draco sitting beside Ginny, who had been on one end of the U-shaped bench, and Pansy beside Hermione. Blaise dragged a chair over from another table, settling in beside his wife.

After the new arrivals ordered drinks from the passing wait-witch, Pansy cleared her throat and made eye contact with Harry. “Let’s be up-front here. We all know we weren’t friends in school, and Merlin knows there were more than a few hexes and bad feelings amongst us. The thing is, we’re all grown up now, and the world has changed. Regardless of the way we,” she nodded at her husband and her best friend, “were raised, the realities today are different. We’ve decided it’s in our best interests to recognize the fallacies of our previous thinking and embrace new things and new people. That’s why I placed that Floo call to you this morning, Harry. We want, at the very least, a détente. We are all hoping for something a bit better than that. We come in peace, and offer to bury the proverbial wand. No strings, no conditions, at least from our end. So, what do you say? Can we let bygones be bygones?”

Of all the stunned people around the table, the most shocked was easily Draco Malfoy. Whatever he’d expected Pansy to do, this was not it. She’d laid out the fundamental details of the most heart-wrenchingly personal conversation the two of them had ever had, for all their former adversaries to hear. He thanked Merlin – and his mother – for having been schooled in keeping his thoughts and emotions from being displayed all over his face. The barest blink and slightest smile were his only outward reaction. As the group, one by one, began to emerge from their stupor to offer responses to Pansy’s proposed treaty, he simply nodded in agreement and assent.

Neville, predictably, was first to reply. Though great damage had been done to his family and his time as a soldier had toughened him, his was a most gentle soul and forgiveness was something that came naturally to him. “If you’re willing to try, then so am I.” His wife’s long blonde curls swayed as she nodded her approval. “The Snorkacks have all left the building. It’s a good time for new friendships,” Luna announced.

Seamus was a little more reluctant and suspicious; he forgave less easily and forgot absolutely never. “Should you prove yourselves genuine by your actions, I’ll give ye a chance,” he stated in his clipped brogue. Hannah then spoke her mind. “I despise conflict, so if you’re willing to be cordial, I am too.”

Ginny was busy staring at her husband. She was flabbergasted that he hadn’t told her about Pansy’s call this morning. Her typically hot temper was on simmer, but it was more directed at Harry for his subterfuge than at Pansy or the other two former Slytherins. She crossed her arms and peered directly at Mrs. Zabini. “That’s a lovely speech, Pansy, and I would certainly like to believe you’re sincere. I guess I’m wondering two things: first, why the sudden change of heart, and second, what’s in it for you, and for us?”

Draco spoke up then. “If I may?” He smiled when Pansy tipped her head in deference. “Our approach to you is sudden, but the thinking behind it is not. We’ve all worked and done business with Muggle-borns and Half-bloods for years. The social and political realities have been clear for a long time. I’m certain that you recognize the influences and teachings we Slytherins were exposed to. A lifetime of taught prejudice is not overcome overnight, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t seen and suffered from the errors we made. Hermione alone is pretty solid proof that what we believed about pureblood supremacy just didn’t hold water. We also know that the number of purebloods has been dwindling rapidly, and we’re learning the hard way that just about everything you warned us about years ago was correct. We were wrong. We want to make amends.”

“So if we accept that as your motivation, what about the second part of my question? What’s in it for you, and for us?” Ginny pressed.

“It allows all of us to survive, and maybe even to thrive beyond where we are now. If we don’t start figuring out ways to integrate into the broader wizarding society, the purebloods will be completely gone in just a generation, two at the very most. We know that many of the old ways are… unpalatable. We also know that some of our historical traditions and knowledge are what makes our world worth living in.

“You may have heard that my wife and I recently divorced, and that’s true. I was fond of Astoria, but we were never in love. Arranged marriages are one of the old traditions that need to be abandoned. We want our own choices. We want to be able to build our own families with whom we choose, not because of a political alliance desired by our parents’, or worse, our great-grandparents’ decrees. Many of us will live with the consequences of their thinking for years, but we don’t want those same shackles on our children, if we’re lucky enough to have them. It has to stop, and we need to take back control of our own lives.” When Draco stopped speaking, he noticed that he’d leaned in to the table and that his breath was coming more quickly with the passion of his declaration. Damn, he thought, there’s more truth than I’ve spoken in years, truth I didn’t know until it spilled from my own lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I’ve let my passions run away.”

“Don’t apologize for that, Draco. It feels like the first really honest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

All eyes turned to Hermione. “What? I appreciate his candor.”

Harry, who had been silent after Pansy’s initial declaration, spoke next. “When Pansy called me this morning, asking me to gather our group, I was initially reluctant. Then on second thought, I had no choice but to agree. All of us, the Slytherins included, have seen the ill-effects of small-minded bigotry and ingrained prejudice. We’re such a small community, when you think about it. The Muggles out-number us by easily a million to one. If the wizarding world is to survive to the next century, we need to do everything we can to build ourselves from within. The more in-fighting and squabbles we have between us, the less likely that we’d be able to survive any external threat, and the less likely that we’ll preserve what’s worth keeping, at our own expense. I agree with Pansy. We’ve done enough to tear ourselves apart over the years. For once, even if it’s only within this small group, let’s do something that joins us together.”

He turned to Draco. “I know that many of the things you did when we were in school were not of your choosing. You and I both know exactly what happened on the Astronomy Tower. And we both know what happened during the final battle. You knew then, Malfoy. And I appreciate how difficult it is to tear yourself away from what your family has done for, in your case literally, a thousand years. The courage you’ve all shown today in reaching out, if you are as sincere as I think you are, easily meets Godric’s own.” Harry extended his hand across the table. “My name is Harry Potter, and we should be allies.”

Draco had to struggle not to allow his jaw to drop. He reached across, meeting the dark-haired wizard half-way. “And I’m Draco Malfoy, at your service.” One firm grasp sealed a new pact.

Blaise Zabini had watched the whole interaction, taking in everything. He wondered just how much of what his wife and best mate had said was genuine, and how much was to meet Draco’s unspoken agenda. He had been astonished at Draco’s vehemence and at his wife’s seemingly straight-forward approach. If they were both as serious as they sounded, this was a watershed moment. Too heavy for my tastes on a Saturday night, he thought. “Now that we’ve all declared our mutual love and respect, I propose a toast.” He lifted his Firewhisky toward the center of the table. “To a new era of success, fruitful prosperity, and cooperation in wizarding relations.” As they all tapped glasses and drank, he smirked at Draco, who undoubtedly caught his double entendre, and was impressed by the blond’s ability to keep a straight face. Maybe the wanker did mean it, Merlin help us.

While Hermione had made a brief comment directly in response to Draco’s embarrassed apology, she had not made a broader statement. She watched and listened as the couples to her right and left conversed about relatively safe topics such as Quidditch (though any discussion between a Harpies fan and a Cannons fan was likely to erupt into fisticuffs) and career choices. As libations continued to flow, the topics became lighter and laughter more free. Soon, couples decided to take a turn or two on the dance floor, which left two single people alone at the table.

She broke the silence between them. “Thank you for the note and flowers. They were unnecessary, but appreciated.”

“My mother raised me to be a gentleman, Hermione.” He paused for a moment. “I know it probably sounds a little odd for me call you by your given name, but I hope you’re not offended. Somehow, it doesn’t feel right to call you ‘Granger’ any longer.”

“Well, technically, I am ‘Granger’ again, so if you feel more comfortable with that, I won’t hex you.” She softened the comment with a twist of her lips.

“I’d heard. Sounds like you and I are sort of in the same boat.”

“How so?”

“Just that we’re both single again. Regardless of how badly I may have treated you, I always thought that you deserved better than Weasley. You were so out of his league,” he commented, undoubtedly trying to make it a compliment.

“Thanks, I think.”

“No, I just meant that people who are trying to be friends generally don’t call each other by their surnames. It’s not terribly… uh, friendly.” Draco flushed with mortification at his awkward and fumbling choice of words, and deliberately ignoring the unkind comment he'd just made about the woman's ex-husband. “Sorry, I guess my chatting-up skills are a bit rusty. I feel like a fifth-year on his first date. Oh, not that I think this is a date; I mean, just comparatively, skill-wise, I apparently, um, suck.”

Hermione laughed out loud. “Draco, will you relax? By Merlin and Morgana, there’s no need to try to impress me.”

“Well, there may be no need, but I certainly don’t want you to think of me as a bumbling fool. I generally have more than two functioning brain cells to rub together.”

“I seem to recall that you were always neck-and-neck with me in class ranking.”

“Academics skill doesn’t necessarily equate to social facility. While my goal is not specifically to charm the knickers off you, I’d prefer you don’t think me a complete social moron.”

“And you’re back in stride,” she replied with a chuckle as she sipped her glass of merlot.

He smirked cheekily and then sat quietly for a moment, the debate going on in his head evident on his furrowed brow. Because the noise of the music and conversation was nearly deafening, Draco slid over a couple of seats so that what he had to say remained private between him and the woman who was twirling the stem of her glass between two slim fingers.

“Hermione, until I spoke a few minutes ago, I hadn’t ever really articulated those thoughts and feelings in such a stark way. I understood them, and felt them in varying degrees over the years, but never had I thought to express them. They came to me slowly and gradually, and only very recently have they jelled so clearly, partly because of recent events in my own life. I sent you that note and the flowers because I wanted you to know that you are in every way an equal to everyone else in our world, and you deserve every courtesy that I would extend, no matter what the occasion. I was so thoroughly wrong about you when we were kids, and even if it’s taken me better than ten years to truly absorb what that means to me, I want you to know how genuinely sorry I am for the hurt I caused.”

“How honest do you intend to be with me, Mal… uh, Draco? Because as much as I’d love to believe that your change of heart is altruistic and lasting, I can’t help but feel that there’s a subtext,” she challenged, but not unkindly.

This was a moment of truth. Just how far would he go in either baring his soul or in obfuscating? If he were true to the comments both he and Pansy had made, he go all in and tell her everything, or nearly everything. Or he could offer a reasonable pretense based on the selfless premise they’d shared.

He breathed deeply and looked her in the eye. “If you had asked me that question a couple of months, or even weeks ago, I’d have answered differently. The last few years have been challenging for me in ways I never expected. My wife and I… our marriage was not successful on several fronts, and that has forced me to reflect on what I really want in my life, and why. I know that I want to marry again someday, but my next wife will be a very different person, and she’ll be getting a very different Draco.”

“If it’s not too personal, may I ask why you and Astoria divorced? It’s very unusual in pureblood marriages, I understand.” Neither seemed to notice or care that the extreme noise levels were forcing them to speak directly into the other’s ears.

“We divorced because our marriage contract required it,” he said with a bark of a laugh. He saw the confusion and surprise in Hermione’s eyes. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. “We were unable to conceive a child in our seven years of marriage. Our agreement was iron-clad. We had to divorce. No need to cry a tear for us, though. As I mentioned earlier, our marriage was arranged.” He stopped for a moment, debating just how far he was willing to go.

“My family’s inheritance rules and political power have always been based on our total blood purity. That very essence of life is our eventual un-doing. You and your friends were right years ago when you said that our in-breeding would be the death of us. Astoria will almost certainly never have children. My own chances are… less bad. But the one thing I’ve learned in all of this misery is that, maybe partly because it’s been so difficult to achieve, I want, more than anything, to be a father. A good one, who allows his children to form their own opinions and make their own decisions. Who guides and counsels rather than coercing and forcing. And I want a wife who’s a fully equal partner in building our family, should we be lucky enough to have one. Astoria was sweet, in her own way, but she wasn’t the stimulating challenge that I think I prefer.” He saw Hermione’s eyebrow arch at his choice of words.

“Not in the bedroom, Granger, I mean mentally stimulating,” he clarified with a wolfish grin. “Astoria was… kind of… thick.” He covered his face with both hands and laughed heartily for a moment. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve always thought that about her, but never had the guts to say it aloud. Must be all the Firewhisky,” he attempted to excuse his indecorous remark.

“You’ve only had two, Draco,” Hermione observed.

“Hunh. So I have. I wonder why I’m spilling my guts to you. Any insight to offer on that?”

“Haven’t a clue, although I have been known to let people cry on my shoulder from time to time.”

“That must be it: your plainly sympathetic soul reaching out for poor sods like me.”

“So what’s next for you?”

“Pardon?”

“What is your plan? How do you intend to move forward?”

“Oh, well, I can’t say that I really have a plan, unless you consider broadening my social circle and being truer to my own heart.”

“Is that what this is about? Broadening your social circle?” she asked, just a tad suspiciously.

“In small part, yes, but it’s actually a pretty powerful political stand. The impact of a Malfoy acknowledging the folly of old pureblood marriage practices is incalculable. Not to be self-centered, Hermione, but people will pay attention when I marry someone other than another pureblood. It will signal a sea change.”

“Do you really believe what you’re telling me, Draco, or is this some line you’re cooking up to suit your own ends?”

“Hermione, if I were playing a game here, I’d never have mentioned a single word about my own problems. I’ve done a lot of thinking and soul-searching (since midnight last night, he silently added) and I swear on Merlin’s wand, I’ve had an earth-shaking change of mind and heart.”

“I hope that’s the case. It will make your life richer and fuller in ways you can’t even imagine, I'd wager.”

“I’m sort of counting on that,” he replied, keeping eye contact with the dark-haired witch beside him.

They sat companionably, sipping their drinks and listening to the music. Finally, Draco mustered enough courage to speak again.

“Would you like to dance?”

She shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

He took her hand and escorted her to the dance floor, where they tucked in among the crowd. The song was similar to the one they’d danced to the previous evening, and they quickly fell into an easy rhythm, allowing the music to take them where it would.

“You’re a good dancer,” he told her as he leaned into her body. “Lots of natural rhythm.”

“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Years of dance lessons when I was a kid.” They were stunned when exactly the same phrase left both of their mouths in unison. Laughter quickly followed, somewhat lost in the noise of the loud music.

“See? We have something in common besides Hogwarts,” he observed, leaning in even closer and speaking into her ear.

“Is that important?” she wondered, following suit.

“It’s generally preferable for friendly-type people to have more than one interest in common. Cuts down on the long lulls in conversation,” he replied.

“Somehow, I don’t think boredom would be an issue in spending time with you. That rapier wit, even when it was directed at me, was something to behold, Draco.”

“I recall getting as much as I gave with you, Hermione. And I think you’re still one-up on me in the ‘besting’ department, and likely to remain so,” he noted.

“How so?” she asked, a bit confused.

“Third year. One broken nose,” he reminded her with a bit of a shudder. “Regardless of how much of a cad I am with my words, I do not, have not, and will not ever strike a woman. Thus, you have bested me in the physical assault department and so it will be.” He smirked and winked, trying to convey the message that he was simply teasing.

“I’ll try to keep violence to a minimum, should we have occasion to spend any time together,” she promised.

“And I’ll be sure to temper my tendencies to provoke. Old habits, so they say.”

“I suppose it depends on what the provocation is and what reaction you’re trying to elicit.”

“Touché, Miss Granger. I’ll amend my pledge to provoke only positive interaction.”

“By whose definition?”

“Hmmm. Fair point. We may need to collaborate on a list.”

“And at the top of that list?” she prompted.

“Dancing, without a question.”

“I will stipulate to that request.”

“How about… fine drink and dining?” he proposed.

“There could be occasions where such interaction would be acceptable. For instance, we are sharing fine – okay, adequate – drink at this establishment this evening,” she noted.

“Ah, another shared interest?”

“Possibly. Should I take it to mean that you prefer a high-quality libation over a quick buzz?”

He pulled back slightly to look at her, as if to say… Are you kidding?

“Of course, utterly foolish question. And yes, if given the choice, I prefer smaller quantities of higher quality.”

“You may have noticed, the list of shared interests has tripled.”

“I had. Should we explore what else might make the list?”

“What could it hur…” Draco’s question was abruptly interrupted and his eyes went first wide, then narrow at the approaching figure. Before he had the time to formulate another word, his dance partner had been suddenly wrenched away by a clearly intoxicated and utterly furious Ron Weasley.

Hermione squealed in surprise, followed by pain when the red-head had tightly gripped her arm, and finally anger as she saw who the interloper was. “Let go of me, Ron,” she ordered from between clenched teeth.

“No, ‘Mione. You’re mine and I’m taking you home with me now. Besides that, what are you doing with this fucker?” His words were slurred and his eyes unfocused. It was surprising that he’d even noticed the other wizard.

“Let me go. Now.”

He tried to use his substantial height and weight advantage to pull her off the dance floor.

Draco stepped closer. “I believe the lady asked you to release her. I suggest you comply with her request.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” Ron sneered.

“You really don’t want to find out. Let her go and leave,” he ordered, his voice low and deadly.

By now, the little drama playing out on the dance floor began to attract a little attention. Ginny approached, speaking to Ron from behind. “I told you not to come here tonight. Haven’t you done enough damage already? Leave her alone. You had your chance and threw it away,” she angrily scolded her brother.

“But I love her. I miss her,” he whinged.

“No, Ron. You don’t love me and I’m not sure you ever did. You relied on me. You used me. You depended on me. And I don’t deny that you may miss me. But love? I don’t think so. It’s long over, and I want you to let me go,” she told him, sadly and solemnly.

“No! You’re mine!” he insisted.

Draco had had enough. “I’m giving you one last warning, Weasley. Release her immediately or suffer the consequences.”

“What the fuck do you have to say about it?” Ron snarled.

“This.” He pulled his wand from its pocket in a flash, casting a lightning-fast Stupefy which ensured that the man's grip on Hermione would fail. Draco reached out for her and tucked her body behind his protectively. He pointed the wand at Ron again and uttered a quiet, focused Incarcerous which bound only his wrists.

Harry stepped up now and grasped Ron’s arm. “I’ll take him out of here,” he said, Apparating the two of them away.

Hermione moved from behind Draco and faced him squarely, with her hands on her hips. “I’m not sure whether to thank you or throttle you.”

“Uh…”

“I can handle Ron, you know.”

“I have no doubt of that. My concern was that your wand was most likely in your purse at the table and without it at hand to defend yourself, and there was every possibility that he would Apparate away with you. I didn’t want to see you in jeopardy. I’m sorry if I stepped over the bounds.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, that’s true. I didn’t think of that,” she admitted. Hermione flushed as she realized that the wine had probably clouded her judgment, and dulled her reflexes, more than she’d thought. “Then I guess I’ll have to go with the thank you option.”

He bowed slightly. “At your service, madam.” He thought for a second. “I do, however, require recompense for my chivalrous act.”

“Oh?” she asked, arching an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Yes, it’s in the damsel-rescuing manual. ‘The rescuer may request a small token of appreciation from the rescue-ee,’ it says. I think it’s on page twelve.”

“Oh, well, if it’s in the manual, how can I refuse? What is this payment you require, Sir Draco?” she asked with great amusement.

“I require the pleasure of your company. For fine dinner and drink. Oh, and dancing, too. But not this kind of dancing. The real kind, where I actually hold you in proper frame and we glide across the floor to Mozart or Strauss. It would be such a shame to let all those dancing lessons go to waste, don’t you think?” He looked at her, his expression more hopeful than she’d expected it to be.

“Since there’s no question that the manual states this request is your prerogative, I suppose I have no choice but to accept. In fact, there’s probably even a requirement in the damsel’s manual, probably on page thirty, that I do. The dancing part has merit too. My parents would be so grateful that all that tuition expense had not been for nothing,” she agreed. “When do you propose to collect your payment?”

“Oh, these things must be settled as soon as possible, or interest accrues on your debt, thus requiring additional payment. Then again, that may not be such a bad idea,” he mused, ostensibly to himself. He smiled at her and was glad to see that she was smiling – or maybe it was a smirk – right back.

“Seriously, Hermione. I think I’d like to get to know the fascinating woman I failed to recognize when we were kids. I think we may be more alike than we are different. Are you willing to find out?”

“I think I am. How about next Saturday?” she proposed.

“It’s only half nine. How about now?” he countered, offering his hand. Intrigued and curious, she accepted it with a nod and a grin.


	3. Chapter 3

The atmosphere in the elegant supper club was nearly a polar opposite to the flashing strobe lights, driving beat and overwhelming noise of the Swish & Flick. Soft candlelight, soothing music from a ten-piece orchestra, and quiet murmurs of private conversation greeted Draco and Hermione as they wove their way through the vast maze of tables to a secluded corner. This venue plainly catered to a desire for an intimate tête-à-tête.

As Draco watched Hermione’s reaction, he worried that it might have been the wrong choice. Her brow was furrowed and her smile was a bit strained. He decided to confront the issue head-on. It wouldn’t do to have her unhappy or uncomfortable for their first private meeting.

“If you don’t like it here, we can go back to the Swish & Flick, or somewhere else, if you prefer,” he offered.

Hermione blinked at his words, surprised that he’d so quickly interpreted her mood. What he had missed, and had no cause to understand, was the reason behind it. She smiled, this time more genuinely, and shook her head. “No, Draco, this is fine. In fact, much better than fine. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to come here, but Ron always refused. He thought it was ‘too stuffy and boring.’ We had very different tastes in the things we enjoyed. His usually won out for what entertainment we chose,” she explained.

Draco nodded sagely, but very deliberately refrained from making a disparaging remark. It would really serve no purpose. “Well, then, maybe we should see if our tastes in culture and entertainment are more compatible,” he offered. “Shall we sit and order a drink?”

“Yes, please,” she accepted, easing into the chair that he had pulled out for her. Draco then chose the seat to her right rather than opposite her at the small, square table.

Seconds later, they were approached by a house-elf wearing a miniature dress-robe that resembled a Muggle tuxedo. A crisp, white linen napkin was draped over its left arm and a wine list, rendered on fine, white parchment was grasped in its right hand.

“May I show Miss and Sir tonight’s wine selections?” the tiny creature asked, in a voice as rich and cultured as any Hermione had ever heard.

Draco’s natural tendency was to order for the both of them; his ex-wife had played the part of the society bride extraordinarily well. This witch, he guessed, might approach things differently. “Hermione,” he began, “would you prefer wine or a mixed cocktail?”

“I started with wine this evening. It’s probably a better idea to stay with that,” she replied. She turned slightly to address the house-elf. “What do you recommend from your list as a nice red wine for sipping?”

“We have a Chateau Cheval Blanc 2005 Bordeaux and a Dom de la Romanee Conti Richebourg Grand Cru 2007 Pinot Noir that are both exquisite,” the tiny creature told her.

Hermione was not familiar with either selection, but saw Draco’s eyes go bright at their mention. “I’ll defer to you Draco,” she stated.

“The Chateau Cheval Blanc, please,” he decided, “and bring us a variety of appetizers that will complement the wine.”

“Very good, sir,” the house-elf acknowledged with a bow.

“Don’t you usually do it the other way around?” Hermione asked, puzzled.

“I’m sorry; what do you mean?” Draco asked for clarification.

“Select the wine based on the food choice,” she explained.

He smiled and blushed a bit, looking at his hands folded on the table. “Not this time. At over two hundred Galleons a bottle, the wine is clearly preeminent.”

He watched with both amusement and a touch of embarrassment as she gracefully contained her urge to sputter. Hermione tucked in closer to the table and spoke in a whisper. “Are you nuts? That’s… a thousand pounds! That’s more than I make in a week – in two weeks!” she argued.

“I know it’s a little extravagant, but it’s a special occasion. I happen to like that appellation very much; no reason that you shouldn’t get to enjoy it.” He shrugged, as if to dismiss her concern.

“What’s so special about this occasion, then?” she prodded.

“The end of hostilities between Slytherins and Gryffindors is quite momentous. It deserves to be celebrated and relished.”

“I won’t argue the premise, but we are talking about a rather small group of both,” she noted.

“A rather influential collection of representatives, though,” he pointed out, lifting an eyebrow to emphasize his words.

“Well, that may be true, but you don’t have to spend profligately to impress me, regardless of the reason,” she scolded lightly.

“Would Weasley know the meaning of the word?” he wondered aloud, recognizing that, for all his desire not to be crass just seconds earlier, this question was decidedly snide.

Hermione had to laugh when she realized what Draco had intimated. “Oh, Merlin, no. He’d get it in context, but he sure as rain wouldn’t have been able to use it in a sentence.”

He breathed deeply and met her eyes. “Look, Hermione, I am who I am. I can afford nice things. That’s not going to change, regardless of who I keep company with. And just so we’re clear, I’m not doing it to denigrate your ex-husband; I just thought you might like to try a wine that I enjoy very much. I have three cases of it in my wine cellar, so it’s not particularly over-the-top for me. Once you taste it, I guarantee you won’t worry about how much it cost. Relax and stop thinking for a little while. If anything, my goal here is to impress you with my wit and charm. The money is entirely a non-issue.”

“I think you know me well enough to know that it certainly wouldn’t be your money that I’m concerned with. I guess I have to ask: Why would you want to impress me at all?” she pressed.

“Well, other than pure male ego reasons, even back in the days that I hated you for your heritage, I couldn’t deny your intellect and ability. It caused me no end of grief from my father that I was regularly bested by a Muggle-born. You fascinated me, and as much as I would have hated to admit it, I was horribly curious about you. I guess that part really hasn’t changed,” he confessed. “I guess I would like you to want to know about me as much as I want to know about you.”

Their chat was interrupted by the arrival of the house-elf waiter. He - identified by the name embroidered on his lapel as “Ralph” – presented the bottle of wine to Draco for his inspection and approval. At the wizard’s nod, he snapped his fingers, causing two fine Waterford crystal goblets to appear on the table. He uncorked the wine, giving the cork to Draco, who again nodded after ensuring that it was properly moist. A bare ounce was poured into Draco’s goblet, which he swirled, sniffed, and sipped. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and his eyes drifted shut for a fraction of a second as he relished the smooth, velvety libation. “Perfect,” he pronounced, allowing the house-elf to proceed in filling Hermione’s glass, then finishing Draco’s serving.

“Your appetizers will be served in just a moment,” the house-elf announced as he set the bottle on the table between them. True to his word, they hadn’t even had an opportunity to reach for their goblets when the table was laden with a selection of cold meats, cheeses, hors d’oerves, and artisanal breads.

Draco raised his glass. “To new friendships beginning as old rivalries end,” he proposed.

“Salut,” Hermione agreed, lifting the goblet to sip the fine beverage. “Ohhh,” she exclaimed after a moment, “this is just exquisite!”

He grinned happily. “Told you so.” He laughed merrily, if briefly. “I must confess, I’ve always wanted an excuse to say that to a Gryffindor. Please take no offense.”

“Feel free. This deserves a ‘told you so’ or two.” She lifted the goblet once more to take in the wine’s rich bouquet, closing her eyes in bliss as she finally drew away. “I will honestly admit that I’ve never had anything remotely close to this… fabulous. Thank you for sharing it with me, Draco.”

“My pleasure, really,” he acknowledged. “So, what shall we talk about while we nibble and sip?” He waited until she had selected a sampling from each plate, then chose a few items for himself.

“Hmmm. I think we should discuss what we might be able to add to the ‘positive provocations’ list,” she proposed.

“That’s a fine idea. We’ve already established dancing, fine dining, finer wine,” he lifted his glass toward her, “and witty repartee. What other things are you passionate about, Ms. Granger?”

Her cheeks went just slightly pinker at his choice of words. “Passionate” was not a place she was even remotely close to going with this man. She cleared her throat and spoke primly. “I’ve always been interested in art, especially watercolors and oils on canvas. Sculpture is fascinating, particularly in marble and stone.”

“What styles?” Draco wondered.

“I’m partial to the Impressionists and the Dutch Masters. No one can rival da Vinci for sculpture. Michelangelo is another favorite. How about you?”

“I’d have to agree on most of your choices, and I’d probably add realism. Not terribly fond of modern art such as cubism or the like. But as much as I do enjoy fine art, I’m more partial to good music,” Draco added.

“Define ’good’ for me, Draco,” Hermione prompted.

“Mostly classics, but I can appreciate almost any style of music as long as there’s rhythm and melody and complexity. I’m sure you can imagine that the bulk of what I grew up with was Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Grieg, Strauss, and Chopin. I studied piano for at least ten years, so my training was very focused on sonatas, concertos, and the like.”

Hermione was looking at him appearing to be thoroughly gobsmacked. “You didn’t!”

“I did. My piano is a nine-foot Steinway,” he told her.

“Me too!” she enthused. “Well, not the nine-foot grand piano part; we only had an upright. But I studied piano, too. What’s your favorite sonata?” Hermione asked.

“I’ve always been especially fond of the Pathetique. Fabulous stress relief, I say.”

“For Beethoven, I’m more into Moonlight. It’s so… tranquil,” she opined.

“See? We’ve already added three more items to the list,” Draco said. His voice was quiet and thoughtful as he continued, “I’d have never guessed how much we have in common.”

“Truth be told, I’m just as surprised,” she confessed. “Of course, you’ve not said anything about the one thing I’m best noted for.” She sipped again at the fine Bordeaux.

“That would have to be reading,” he surmised. He leaned forward to add more wine to her glass and a splash to his.

“Of course.”

“I have a confession there, too. Especially when I was a kid, my father used to have to chase me out of the library. I always had my nose in a book.”

“Well, there’s one small divergence between us, then. I always had my nose in a book, but I’d read outside in the back yard under the willow tree, or in a lounge chair near the pool,” she told him.

“That is clearly the reason my complexion was so pasty while you always looked rosy-cheeked and healthy,” he replied, self-deprecatingly.

They each savored another glass of wine and chatted about the things they appreciated and enjoyed, finding common ground in their love of family above all else, and the little joys in life like a good quill, quality leather goods (Hermione confessed to having spent eighty Galleons on her favorite handbag and Draco admitted that the wallet in his pocket had set him back seventy-five), and the importance of self-expression and introspection (both had kept journals for many, many years).

They had been content to chat and ask questions of each other for quite a long time while the orchestra had played for the other patrons’ listening and dancing pleasure. As the night grew late, Draco decided that it would be nice to take at least one turn on the dance floor; he had, after all, boasted his ability and should be expected to back it up with evidence. A perfect opportunity arose when the orchestra began to play a Viennese waltz.

He rose and extended his hand. “Will you do me the honor, Miss Granger?”

She accepted with a nod and a smile, allowing him to take her hand to lead her to the dance floor. It only took a fraction of a second for the two of them to find proper frame and begin to glide around the parquet with sure and graceful steps. They made the entire circuit of the platform three times until the final strains of violin, viola, bass, trumpet, and saxophone faded into silence.

Hermione’s cheeks were flush and a broad smile displayed her enjoyment. “That was just lovely, Draco! It’s been such a long time since I had such a talented partner.”

“I take it your ex-husband did not share your interest and skill in the ballroom?” he guessed, knowing the answer before she spoke.

This time, she was the one to lift an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“Thought not.”

“You thought correctly.”

“Whatever else may come of our new-found… civility, I will promise you that, should you ever find yourself in need of a willing dance partner, I am your man,” he promised, briefly bowing at the waist in a courtly manner.

She snickered quietly. “I shall keep that in mind, Mr. Malfoy, should my feet find the burning need to flit around the floor once more.”

They returned to their table to finish the last of the wine. Draco was not quite ready to leave; they’d been having the liveliest debate about the politics behind extending rights to non-human magical beings. “I could just die for an espresso and a profiterole. Are you game?” he asked.

“You’ve found another of my weaknesses, I fear. There’s nothing better than dessert – of any kind – unless it’s dessert paired with espresso,” she stated firmly. “How do you do that, anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Happen upon my favorite things so easily. Ron and I were married for four years before he knew that I even knew what espresso was.” She sighed with melancholy. “The more I think about it, the less suited I discover we were.”

“Well, just to put you at ease, I’m not using Legilimency on you and I haven’t spied on you since sixth year. I’m just offering some of my favorite things for your consideration. It just so happens that we have a great many of those things in common.”

She, of course, picked up first on his comment about sixth year. “You spied on me when we were in school?” she accused, but with curiosity rather than anger.

“I was a teenage boy. I spied on anything and everything with breasts.” He shrugged. “You might have been the enemy, and an insufferable swot, but back then, you were still… not unpleasant to look at in a jumper.” He smiled and had enough embarrassment to flush slightly. He was also circumspect enough to refrain from ogling those assets openly.

It was Hermione’s turn to blush, but she made it clear that she chose not to be offended. She lifted her chin proudly and proclaimed, “I’m rather proud of my figure, even after having two children. Although I wouldn’t call myself sporty in any way, I do try to stay in condition. You never know, after all, when you might need to run for your life… or enter an impromptu dance marathon.”

They both laughed, and Draco raised a finger to call Ralph’s attention. He ordered their dessert and turned back to Hermione. “I’m glad you decided to stick around a little longer. I know you must be thinking about getting back to your children, so I promise I won’t keep you till all hours.”

“My children are always on my mind, but they are with their grandparents for the night, so I have no curfew, self-imposed or otherwise,” she told him.

“Still, I’m very glad that you agreed to join me here. There’s no way we’d have had the opportunity to have any substantive conversation at the Swish & Flick. It’s fun for drinks and dancing, but not really a place to get to know anyone.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Hermione agreed, taking the final sip of her wine.

“It’s so ironic, and also somewhat disconcerting, that we’ve technically known each other for more than half our lives, and this is the first time we’ve shared more than a couple of dozen words. Never mind that half of them would have been hexes and curses ten years ago.” He shook his head. “Why are people – and by that I mean me – so stupid?”

“Because it’s what we’re taught to think, feel, and believe by our earliest influences. In some ways, I was no better than you. I was instantly suspicious and wary of anyone who was a pureblood, especially if they hadn’t openly defied Voldemort and the Death Eaters. I forgot to take into account that some people felt the need to protect themselves with silence. Not everyone has the stomach or ability for a fight. It didn’t automatically mean assent, and I made that leap far too often.”

“So, how can we grow past that?” Draco wondered.

“I think this is a good start. We make a conscious effort to get to know people as individuals, not as members of some arbitrarily defined group. Isn’t that the root of prejudice? When we think about or use words like ‘us’ and ‘them,’ we automatically separate ourselves. We’ve proved tonight that you and I have more in common, at least in terms of the things we enjoy, than I ever did with the man I married. That ought to tell us something. What, I’m not sure, but something.”

“I know that what it tells me is that I’d like to get to know you better. Are you willing?”

Hermione paused before rubbing a sliver of lemon rind along the rim of her cup of espresso. “I think I am.”

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The next morning, Hermione woke to the Floo’s chime announcing the arrival of her children from their overnight stay at the Burrow. She and Draco had not parted company until nearly half three, so her sleep had been brutally brief. While she had expected Molly, she was not entirely surprised to see her former sister-in-law with niece and nephew in tow. She wasn’t sure which adult would have been the more difficult one to face as she dragged herself out of bed and shrugged on her fluffy yellow bathrobe.

“You look like something the kneazel dragged in,” Ginny commented, though the wry grin on her face belied any annoyance.

“Thanks. Two and a half hours of sleep will do that to you,” she replied through her yawn.

“No!” Ginny exclaimed, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is he still here?”

“What? No! He never made it past the Floo, I’ll have you know,” she replied, drawing on all of her considerable dignity.

“Aw, shucks,” Ginny teased, drolly.

“Mummy, look what Uncle Harry gave us!” Hugo piped up once he’d deposited his overnight bag in his bedroom. He was carrying a miniature version of a Wizard’s Chess set. “He says he’ll teach me how to beat Papa.”

“Yes, Mummy, and I want to learn too!” Rose enthused.

“That’s lovely, my sweets. Did you remember to say ‘thank you’ to Uncle Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, Mummy. I said ‘thank you’ and gived him a big hug,” Hugo promised.

“Me, too,” Rose assured her mother.

“Very good. Mummy’s proud of you. Now go finish putting your clothes in the laundry and Mummy will get some breakfast ready for you.”

“No need,” Ginny interrupted. “I fed them before we left the Burrow. Mum had stacks of pancakes and sausages ready before they even got out of bed.”

“Oh, well, I guess I’ll just make some tea and toast for myself then. Something for you?” she offered.

“Tea, of course. I want to hear all about your little escape last night,” she prompted. “It was the talk of the night, when the two of you left together.”

“Ohhh, I didn’t even think of that,” Hermione groaned, putting a hand over her eyes. “People will think I’m some kind of slag.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t worry about that. It seems that Malfoy has cleaned up his reputation since marrying - and of course, subsequently dumping - Astoria. He hasn’t been seen out with anyone since then. Pansy and Blaise think he’s become a bit more serious and introspective since his younger days.”

“Since when are they ‘Pansy and Blaise?’” Hermione wondered.

“Probably about the same time he became ‘Draco’ to you,” Ginny retorted.

“Fair enough. I suppose if we’re going to try to make this ‘truce’ work, using given names is a reasonable place to begin.”

“So, where did you go? What did you do?” Ginny pressed.

“We went to Grosvenor House, the wizarding side,” Hermione told her.

“Really? Wow. Posh, for sure. What did you do?”

“We had some wine and nibbled on some hors d’oerves, and we talked and danced.”

“And?” Ginny prodded.

“It was a lovely evening. We have a lot more in common than I ever imagined. Our tastes in cultural areas are very similar, and we found that we had many other coincidences in our backgrounds. For example, we both studied dance and piano as children. I think… I don’t know. Maybe we could be good friends,” she concluded, not sure how Ginny might feel about the man they all used to call “ferret” being a part of her life.

“That’s nice. It does seem like he’s grown up to be a decent man. And you have to admit, he’s always been easy on the eyes,” Ginny admitted, with a knowing smile.

“Yeah, well, looks are nice, but if there’s an ugly soul underneath, you can count me out.”

“Do you think he’s still harboring evil intent?” Ginny teased.

“No! That’s not what I meant. I’m just speaking in generalities here, not about Draco in particular. He was very sweet and thoughtful all night.”

“Do you think you’ll see him again?”

Hermione hesitated before answering. “How would you feel if I did?”

“Hermione, my brother treated you like crap. If Malfoy – sorry, Draco – can make you happy, I say that you should go for it. My idiot of a brother has made his bed with his unforgivable behavior, and you shouldn’t sit around wallowing in your grief over someone who didn’t deserve you in the first place.”

“I don’t know yet if there’s any interest in something beyond simple friendship for either of us, but I do know that I had a terrific time last night, and I think he did, too. He was funny, and interesting, and attentive, and a perfect gentleman from start to finish,” she extolled. “And, okay, he’s not unattractive.” When Ginny raised an eyebrow to challenge her characterization, Hermione relented. “Fine, he’s pretty damned hot. And, Merlin forgive me for thinking it, but if he moves in bed like he moves on the dance floor, 'oh my goodness' is all I can say!” She covered her face in embarrassment, laughing when she heard Ginny gasp in her own amusement.

Hermione went on to describe parts of their conversation and just how late into the night they’d talked when her narrative was interrupted by an owl tapping on the window. It was the same beautiful eagle owl that had delivered Draco’s note and flowers the day before, and it was carrying another small bundle. Hermione smiled as she unwrapped the package – a spiky green plant – and read Draco’s note.

_Dear Hermione,_

_As you may know, the acanthus plant represents an appreciation for the arts. I thought you might like to add this to your garden._

_Thank you for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed our time together and hope to see you again soon. Would you consider joining me for dinner next Saturday at 7:00 p.m.? Please send your reply with my owl. He knows to wait._

_Fondly,_

_Draco_

 

Ginny had been reading over her shoulder. “I guess there’s your answer.”

“I guess I need to make a decision about mine, then,” Hermione replied quietly. She thought for a moment, then, after digging her favorite quill out of her handbag, turned the parchment over to write her reply.

_Dear Draco,_

_Thank you for the acanthus plant. It is a welcome addition to my garden._

_I had a lovely time, too. I would be delighted to join you for dinner on Saturday. Please let me know where you’d like to meet._

_Fondly,_

_Hermione_

“There,” she said, attaching the parchment to the owl’s leg and giving it a treat. “Off you go.”

0000000000000000000000000000000000

Draco slept until ten o’clock, when he was awakened by the buzz of his wand, which he had set as an alarm. He had finally returned to his flat at nearly four o’clock in the morning, after he’d escorted Hermione to her Floo connection. He then walked around his block twice to burn off excess energy. Still, he’d tossed for nearly an hour before finally succumbing to sleep near five. His dreams had been pleasant, though, and his slumber, although somewhat brief, had left him surprisingly well-rested. Now, however, he couldn’t afford to laze about. His parents were expecting him in an hour for brunch.

He pushed out of bed and bounded with a surprising amount of energy to the bathroom. He turned on the taps and waited for the water to reach the appropriate temperature. Draco’s shower was a quick one; he didn’t have time to waste this morning, and he decided to cut corners and use his wand to shave rather than using the old-fashioned razor that he typically preferred. He wanted to have a cup of tea and read the paper before heading to the manor. He was also hoping that there might be a reply to the message he’d arranged to be sent earlier this morning.

There were two messages waiting in his kitchen, the first attached to his own owl – obviously Hermione’s reply - and the second from the Zabinis’ owl. Most certainly, it was Pansy being nosy about what had happened during his outing with Hermione. He reached for Hermione’s reply first and was delighted that she’d agreed to his request for a second private meeting. He’d write her another note this afternoon, once he decided where he was going to take her.

Pansy’s note was brief and to the point, and as demanding as she typically was.

_Draco, Darling –_

_So? How did it go? Where did you go? I have to know everything. Call me over the Floo this afternoon, or risk the future functioning of the Malfoy family jewels._

_Love and kisses,_

_Pansy and Blaise_

Draco laughed and shook his head. His friend, as dear as she was to him, could drive him round the bend sometimes. There was only so much detail he’d ever give, and she knew it, but there was no doubt that she’d hound him until the end of days if he didn’t fork over at least a few “juicy” particulars. That would have to wait until he returned from brunch with his parents. They would get first crack at interrogating him today.

He browsed through the headlines in the Daily Prophet, and finding nothing of earth-shattering interest or value, decided that it was time to head to the manor and face the music. He decided that using the Floo was just too quick; he needed a couple of extra minutes to brace himself for the coming inquest. Apparition was the only way to go, then.

After one minute of displacement through space and four minutes of strolling up the long path to Malfoy Manor’s front door, Draco pushed on the heavy brass handle to gain entry into the main foyer. He was greeted by his mother’s personal house-elf, Juji, who told him that his parents were waiting for him in the family dining room. He strolled in precisely as the large case clock began to chime the hour.

“Good morning, Mother,” he paused to kiss her cheek, “Father.” He nodded in acknowledgment and took his usual place at his father’s left, opposite his mother. The table immediately filled with an array of delicacies. Poached eggs with Hollandaise sauce, rashers of bacon, fresh breads and pastries, sliced fruit, Belgian waffles and a prime rib of beef were available for the three diners. Draco absently thought that the feast could easily feed ten, then remembered that anything the family didn’t eat would be given to the house-elves for their mid-day meal. The tiny creatures had astounding appetites; there wouldn’t be a morsel left.

“Draco, dear, good morning to you,” Narcissa greeted. His father’s grunt of acknowledgment meant two things: first, the man hadn’t yet had enough caffeine, and second, that he’d probably only been out of bed for an hour or so himself. Lucius’ very guilty - and very private - pleasure was a long lie-in on Sunday mornings. Typically, his wife was also abed. Draco chose not to think about the implications.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said when she passed the sterling silver basket filled with croissants and muffins.

“So?” she prompted.

Draco fought mightily against his desperate urge to sigh. He’d known, without a doubt, that she would expect a full report of his evening’s successes or failures. He was, however, going to make her work for it, at least a little. “Mother, you’ll need to be a bit more specific,” he drawled.

She huffed impatiently. “Did you go out last night?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“With whom, dear?”

“Pansy and Blaise,” he replied, being as literal as he could.

“Where did you go?”

“The Swish & Flick.”

“Did you see anyone there?” she prodded further.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Hundreds of people,” he offered, biting the inside of his lower lip to hide his smirk.

“Oh, Draco, stop being so obtuse. You know what I want to know,” she snapped, finally getting annoyed with his little game.

“You’re just too easy to tease, Mother,” he told her, a devious twinkle brightening his eyes. “Yes, we went to the Swish & Flick and saw the Gryffindors there. Hermione was with them, and I rescued her from her arse of an ex-husband. I took her to Grosvenor where we had an evening snack and drinks, and we had a very nice conversation. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Not nearly, but it’s a start,” she admitted. “What’s this about rescuing her?”

“It was really nothing. We were dancing when her thoroughly soused ex-husband came up behind her and tried to pull her away against her will. I warned him away and Stupefied him when he wouldn’t leave. She and I left shortly after that, once Potter carted the idiot away.”

“I imagine she was quite grateful for the assistance,” Lucius interjected.

“Well, not at first,” Draco admitted. “She is very independent and quite sure she can take care of herself. Once I reminded her that she’d left her wand in her purse on the table, she recognized that my aid was… timely.”

“So you did a good job of ingratiating yourself. Very Slytherin in your approach. I approve,” his father noted.

“There was no deliberation on that point, Father. She was in distress and I was able to provide relief. There was no calculation of advantage involved,” Draco stated, sounding a bit insulted at his father’s implication as much as he was surprised at himself for not having thought along those lines.

“Even better!” Narcissa enthused. “She likely saw you as courageous, then. A marvelous play toward her Gryffindor nature.”

Draco chose not to comment further on the point, but shook his head slightly at how thoroughly his parents seemed to weigh and counter-weigh every move or turn of phrase. He wondered at how much more “Slytherin” they were than he.

“What else happened?” Narcissa probed.

“We talked and we danced,” Draco added.

“About what?”

“Mother, we talked for well over four hours. I couldn’t possibly remember or recount all of the topics we covered,” he answered with exasperation. Couldn’t a man have a little privacy, for Merlin’s sake?

“Four hours?” she asked for confirmation, appearing quite surprised.

“Yes, Mother, four hours. She’s… an interesting witch. We seem to share… quite a few common interests.” Oooh, miscalculation there, you arse. Now she’ll want to know what they are. He mentally smacked himself on the side of the head.

“Oh? Tell me about them,” his mother insisted. This was one point he knew she would not be denied.

“Primarily, we share similar interests in the arts, and we both studied dance and music as children. We compared notes, so to speak, on our favorite sonatas,” Draco elucidated with as much a note of finality as he dared, recognizing that it was likely futile.

“Hunh,” his mother huffed. “Is there any attraction?”

“She’s not a great, classic beauty, but she is lovely in a wholesome way.”

“No, you goose, I meant was she attracted to you?”

“I don’t know, Mother; I didn’t read her mind.”

“Well, no matter. You’ll just have to woo her more aggressively.”

“Mother, I don’t think Hermione is particularly concerned about a person’s looks. After all, she did marry that Weaselbee. If she’s going to be attracted to me, it will be for our compatibility, not whether she likes my eyes,” Draco snarled impatiently.

“That’s not really what I meant, either, Draco. Attraction comes in many forms. She could be attracted to your intellect or your skill. Merlin forbid, she’s attracted to your money, although in your current circumstances, I suppose that wouldn’t be as big an issue as it might if you were hoping to marry for other reasons,” Narcissa mused, as much to herself as to her son.

“Money has never been and never will be Hermione’s concern; I can tell you that with great confidence. And who says that the only reason I want to marry again is to have a child?” Draco pushed back.

“Well, wasn’t that the whole reason for pursuing a Mud… I’m sorry, a Muggle-born?” Lucius interrupted.

“That may have been my initial motivation, but I find that my thinking has expanded beyond that narrow definition,” Draco stated.

“Oh. Oh! So, you are attracted to her. You think you might like her? Beyond what’s necessary?” Narcissa probed.

“Define ‘necessary’ for me, Mother,” Draco began, then raised a hand before she could speak. “On second thought, don’t. I’ll not marry anyone again simply because I can tolerate the thought of… mating with them. However all of this may play out, I want more from my next marriage than a potential baby factory.” Draco’s words had been vehement, but not particularly harsh.

He did not miss the look that passed between his parents but chose not to search for an interpretation. As long as he kept them out of his social life, at least overtly, their thinking was really to no effect.

“All I will say is that she’s more interesting than I thought she would be and we have much more in common than I ever thought possible. I intend to pursue additional meetings with her based on that. If it goes somewhere beyond that, I’ll be happy to let you know. Otherwise, butt out,” he warned, dropping his linen napkin beside his plate and leaving the dining room.

“Well, this will be entertaining,” Lucius noted.

“True,” his wife added, “It seems our son has grown a spine.” She smiled into her tea as Lucius stuck his nose back into the morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet.

 

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After wandering around the garden for nearly an hour to cool off, Draco had gone back into the manor to visit with his parents. He’d told them in no uncertain terms that, as much as he loved them and appreciated their concern for his happiness and well-being, he needed to manage his relationships in his own way. They had parted company with the elder family members promising not to interfere and their son admitting that there might be times when their advice and counsel would still be welcome.

Arriving back at his flat, Draco poured a Firewhisky and sat at his desk to write a new note to Hermione about the plans for their evening together in six days hence. It took four tries before he was finally satisfied with his effort. He wrote:

_Dear Hermione,_

_Your acceptance of my invitation has made my day. I’m most eager to continue our conversation. I can’t recall a time in recent memory when I’ve felt both so intrigued and so comfortable. I must confess that I wish I hadn’t been so blind for so many years. We might have been friends much sooner._

_I’ve selected a casual venue for our next meeting. Please feel free to dress as you might for a Quidditch match. (I do promise, however, that we will not be within a dozen miles of a pitch!) Comfortable shoes might be desirable._

_If it’s acceptable to you, I will collect you at your home so that I may escort you to our destination._

_With great anticipation,_

_Draco_

He wrapped the parchment around his owl’s leg and arranged for delivery of another symbolic piece of flora. Now, all he had to do was deflect Pansy’s incessant questioning. Fat chance, his inner voice told him.

It was probably better to get it over with rather than wait for her to stew in her own curiosity. Why exacerbate the situation unnecessarily? That decision made, he threw Floo powder into the hearth and called out the Zabinis’ address. It was answered promptly by Mrs. Zabini, as he expected.

“Will you let me through, or are you and your arsehole coming over here?” Draco asked.

“Don’t be an idiot, Draco. Come on over,” Pansy invited, stepping aside to allow him passage.

“Hello, lovely,” he greeted her, dropping a kiss on her offered cheek. “Where’s your arsehole? I don’t want to have to tell this story twice.”

“He’s in the study, listening to something on the wireless,” she replied. “Go on and get him; I’ll wait for you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at her and put two fingers in his mouth, executing an ear-splitting whistle.

It only took a moment for Blaise to appear around the corner, a sour look on his face.

“That’s as much effort as I’ll expend corralling your husband, Mrs. Zabini,” Draco retorted.

“You summoned, Monsieur Imbecile?”

“I did. I appreciate your prompt compliance.” Draco made himself comfortable in one of the overstuffed armchairs near the hearth. “Your darling wife summoned me, after all, to find out what happened last night after Hermione and I left, and I’m not going through this conversation forty times, so sit,” he ordered.

“Only you would think that it’s acceptable to boss a man around in his own home,” Blaise grumbled.

Draco merely snorted in reply as Pansy took a seat near him, an eager look in her eyes.

“Shut up, Blaise,” she said without even looking at the man. “This is important.” She addressed her next words to Draco: “Spill. Every detail.”

He sighed with a hint of irritation. “We went to Grosvenor, shared a bottle of wine and a few hors d’oerves, danced a little, and talked. I escorted her home and went back to my place. That good enough?”

“Merlin, not even close!” Pansy practically shrieked. “I’ve heard more interesting and memorable accounts in Binns’ History of Magic classes, and that was eons ago! You’ve got to do better than that, young man.”

“What more do you want to know? We had a nice time. She’s interesting to talk to, and we have a number of things in common. I’ve asked her out again, and she accepted. I plan to take this slowly and deliberately. Nothing rash, and no hurry.”

“So you like her,” Pansy concluded.

“Well, I won’t go quite that far yet, but getting to know her wasn’t your worst idea,” he allowed. “We’ll have to see what develops. Remember, it’s not just up to me,” he cautioned.

“Not entirely, but I’m sure you could add appropriate enticements that would sway most women,” Blaise interjected.

“I’ll remind you both that Hermione Granger is not ‘most women.’ She’s smarter than just about anyone we know, including me. Manipulating her is next to impossible because she’s wary and two steps ahead of every possible angle. Besides, I think she’s one who will respond better to honesty and building a foundation of friendship and compatibility.”

“You’re actually going to play this straight?” Blaise asked, sounding horrified by the concept.

“I believe that’s what I just said.”

“So are you telling us that you really believed what you said at the table last night?” Pansy prompted.

“Yes.”

“No qualifications or caveats?” she asked.

“No.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Blaise mused aloud.

“Lots of soul-searching and thinking about the actions and beliefs that got me where I am now. Admittedly, in a very compressed time period. That’s one thing I don’t feel the need to ever share outside of this room, by the way. However, I’ve come to the conclusion that we really were idiots, and dead wrong about a lot of what we were fed as children and teens. At least for me, that’s an important revelation.” He turned directly to Pansy. “I thought you were being sincere with your offer last night, especially after the conversation we had yesterday. Was that not true?”

“Well, there was certainly more than a little truth in it, but I didn’t realize you’d gone even further. So I take it we’re going to need to put up or shut up?” she asked.

“Yep. I’d say that’s it in a nutshell,” Draco confirmed.

Pansy and Blaise traded glances, and Blaise shrugged. “No skin off my nose. I’m in if you are.”

“If it will help Draco get what he wants and needs, I’m willing to play the game. I wasn’t being disingenuous, but I didn’t know you were planning to dive in head first. We’ll support you; it’s probably the right thing to do, regardless of your situation,” Pansy conceded. “So what’s next?”

“As I said earlier, I’ve asked her out to dinner next Saturday and she agreed. I thought we’d do something nice and simple. Maybe a picnic near the ocean. I want her to see that I’m not only a reflection of my money, because I think that actually turns her off. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate nice things, but there’s more to her than that.”

“Merlin and Morgana, Draco, you sound like you’ve already gone ‘round the bend,” Pansy told him with a wide-eyed stare.

“No, I just… appreciate that she’s a much more complex and interesting person than Astoria. For all the surface things she and I had in common, mostly due to our similar upbringing, my ex-wife didn’t have the passion for things like Hermione does. I find that… stimulating.”

“You’ve already dropped the ‘Granger’ references, mate,” Blaise observed, a teasing grin creasing his cheeks.

Draco chuckled. “Yeah, we actually talked about that last night. We concluded that ‘friendly’ people don’t use surnames as a form of address.”

“Ah, so that’s where it comes from,” Pansy concluded.

“Where what comes from?”

“The Potters were also using our given names last night, and not to be awkward, we reciprocated,” she explained.

Draco shrugged. “Seems sensible and… polite, I guess.”

“Does this mean we’re going to need to arrange regular meetings with the Gryffindor group?” Blaise wondered.

“I don’t think it would hurt my chances, if that’s what you mean. If something more were to develop between Hermione and me, we would certainly be thrown into social situations with them rather frequently. I can’t imagine that she’d abandon her friends; it’s just not in her nature. So, yeah, maybe not every week, but periodically.”

“Fine. Shall I extend the next group invitation, or will you?” Pansy asked.

“I’ll leave the broader social calendar in your skilled hands, Pansy. Just make sure you check with me before committing me to any grand event,” Draco cautioned. “It wouldn’t do to interrupt private time, now, would it?”

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If Hermione had been surprised by Draco Malfoy’s previous messages and floral gifts, she was positively baffled by this one: a forsythia bush was sitting in her front yard. His note had probably given a clue, but she was not nearly as well-versed in the language of flowers as pureblood witches were. This one, she’d have to investigate. She felt sure that Ginny might know, or would at least have an idea whom to ask or in what book the answer might be found.

Her patience for solving a mystery was non-existent, so Hermione tossed a handful of Floo powder into the flames and called out the Potters’ address. She was answered a moment later by the lady of the house.

“Hey there! I just left an hour ago, you know. What’s up now?” Ginny teased.

“What’s a forsythia for?” Hermione blurted out.

“Uh, it’s a plant that has yellow flowers and green leaves, most often used as a light hedge plant. Why?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m speaking without thinking. What does it mean? In the language of flowers,” she hurriedly clarified.

“Oh! Malfoy sent you another floral gift, eh?” Ginny concluded.

“Yes, and most of them I had at least a clue. I’m stumped. Do you have any idea?” she pleaded.

“I think so, but hang on one second and I’ll get my floriography book and check for sure,” she offered, her head disappearing from the Floo momentarily.

Hermione could barely stand the suspense, but waited as patiently as she could on her hands and knees, not really having much choice in the matter since she hadn’t thought to tell Ginny to call her back when she’d found the answer. She was most grateful when her best friend returned not even a minute later.

“I was right,” she announced as she stuck her head back into the Floo connection. “It means ‘anticipation.’”

“I should have trusted my first thought, too. That’s sort of what he said in the note, ” Hermione added.

“He sent you another note?”

“Yeah, to tell me that he’d pick me up here for our dinner on Saturday, and to dress casually, as I would for a Quidditch match. He was so funny; he said that we wouldn’t be anywhere near a pitch, though.”

“He already knows you pretty well,” Ginny observed with a laugh.

“Apparently. Now if I could figure out how he knew about my garden,” she mused.

“Well, I don’t think specific knowledge of your garden has anything to do with it. He’s very traditional, and using flowers to convey messages is about as old-fashioned as it gets. If you get any more involved with him, you can count on getting all kinds of crazy flower and plant gifts.”

“I keep forgetting that, even though the Weasley clan is pureblood, you aren’t terribly traditional in many ways. I can count on two fingers the number of times Ron gave me flowers,” Hermione recalled.

“That’s as much to do with Ron being cheap as his ignorance, Hermione,” Ginny reminded her with scorn in her tone. Ron was clearly not her favorite brother these days.

“Only looking forward today, Ginny, I promise,” Hermione replied with a chuckle. “Now, are you going to come over Saturday to help me plan an outfit?”

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When Saturday morning dawned to torrential rain, Draco was convinced the fates were conspiring against him. He had planned a picnic supper at the seashore followed by a stroll along the beach for his dinner date with Hermione. The anticipated weather was not cooperating as it seemed the whole weekend would be a wash-out. While that was not terribly unusual for Great Britain, it was less common during late July. He’d hoped to have a little luck on his side. Now, he’d have to adjust his plans, and it would require a call to his mother. While that wasn’t an issue per se, he’d rather she not be intimately involved in any date-planning, and this new development would require at least her knowledge of said event. He sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable, tossing the required amount of Floo powder into the hearth for his call. He was at least grateful that the arrangements wouldn’t require his father’s cooperation, thank Merlin for small favors.

“Malfoy Manor!” he enunciated.

“Draco, dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Narcissa answered in mere seconds. 

“Mother, I need to ask a favor.”

“Of course, Draco. I’m sure we’ll be able to help. What is it?” she prodded.

“I need to use the property on Crete tonight. Could you send a couple of house-elves over to make sure it’s acceptable for a visit?”

“No trouble at all. May I ask why you need it tonight?”

He knew she was going to ask, yet he still cringed. “I have a date, and it’ll be better weather there for what I have planned.”

“With Miss Granger?”

“Yes, Mother, with Miss Granger. We’re just doing a simple picnic, but I wanted something casual on the beach, and as you can plainly see if you look out the window, that is not in the cards within a few hundred miles of here. I thought I’d go somewhere that I know the weather will almost certainly be perfect,” he explained, hoping that the detail had been enough to satisfy her curiosity.

“Do you plan to stay overnight?” she queried.

“Mother!”

“I didn’t necessarily mean the two of you, although it might be rather inconvenient to bring her home then return by yourself,” she noted.

“She has children to think about. I doubt we’ll be staying overnight. Besides, this is only our first official date. I’m taking this slowly.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” she placated him. “I’ll be sure that the sleeping facilities are available, just in case. Have a good time!” she wished him, pulling out of the Floo and terminating the connection on her end.

Draco sat back on his heels, grateful that it hadn’t been any more painful or humiliating than it had. His mother was right on one account; he’d need to remember to check with Hermione about when she needed to be home. It wouldn’t do to make her uncomfortable about watching the clock to get back to her kids.

He pushed up from the floor and headed to the kitchen for a quick breakfast, thinking about taking a quick stroll before remembering, with a literal slap to the side of his head, that the weather would not cooperate with that idea. He’d have to get some exercise the old fashioned way, so push-ups and crunches it would be. Healer Hubert had been adamant about him keeping his body fat as low as possible, and he’d developed the habit of getting some kind of physical activity every day. He’d found it good stress relief and distraction, particularly now that he wasn’t having intercourse every night. That had been a tough habit to break. The edict about keeping his hand off his penis other than twice a week hadn’t been much easier to take. Only the higher purpose involved allowed him to keep his resolve. It had required significantly more discipline than he’d imagined when he’d so blithely accepted the Healer’s suggestion.

Two hours later, Draco had finished a light breakfast, a reasonably strenuous workout, a wonderfully hot shower, and had finalized arrangements for the picnic meal for the evening. He was a decent cook in a pinch, but no expert, so he’d arranged for a simple and authentic Greek meal of dolmades, souvlaki, spanakopita, and salad - with honey-drenched baklava for dessert – to be delivered to the family beach house promptly at half seven. He’d raid the on-site wine cellar for something appropriate. He hoped that Hermione would appreciate Greek cuisine, kicking himself for not thinking earlier of the possibility that she might not. He would add some simple roasted chicken pieces to the order, just to be safe.

Deciding to spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing, Draco pulled a book he’d wanted to read from his library and settled in for a few hours of leisure.

Nearly sixty miles away, Hermione’s day was a bit different. She’d risen at six o’clock to get the kids ready for their weekend visit with their father, and spent most of the morning after they’d left doing chores around the house. Even combining magic with Muggle methods, it took more than four hours to get laundry, dusting, floor washing, and general tidying complete. Two children had a great knack for making a mess, particularly with the ridiculous number of toys they owned.

After a quick lunch of green grapes, orange slices, and cottage cheese, Hermione had a long soak in the tub and waited for Ginny to arrive. She had promised to help her devise an outfit that was casual without being sloppy. Hermione’s own fashion sense wasn’t always stellar, she would readily admit.

Ginny’s arrival was perfectly timed with Hermione’s exit from the bathroom, once again wrapped in her favorite fluffy yellow robe.

Since Hermione only had a vague idea that they’d be doing something casual, and it was both steamy hot and raining, she had to assume that Draco would not take them somewhere they’d be soaked. He certainly had more sense than that. So, she’d told Ginny to just plan for keeping cool and looking reasonably good. Ginny rifled through Hermione’s closet and found the perfect outfit – a milk-chocolate colored pair of linen cropped trousers and a cream linen blouse with cuffed, elbow-length sleeves. A pair of tan low-heeled sandals and simple gold jewelry finished her ensemble. Ginny styled Hermione’s hair into a tight French braid, and Hermione then added a very light touch of blush, mascara, and lip gloss.

“You look sophisticated, stylish, and positively lovely!” Ginny told her as she turned in a circle for inspection.

“I have no idea what we’re doing, but I think this would work for almost any casual occasion,” Hermione concluded, satisfied that she’d not be embarrassed with her choices. With a hug and a wish for luck, Ginny departed through the Floo, leaving her friend to wait for her escort to appear.

It was not ten minutes later that Draco’s arrival at Hermione’s house was heralded by the chime of her front doorbell. She wondered why he hadn’t used the Floo instead of Apparating. Her answer came when she opened the door; he was wearing light tan trousers with dark tan sandals and a stark white, short sleeve cotton button-up shirt. Even with a good Scourgify spell, it was quite likely that traveling by Floo would have stained his clothing with soot.

That was not what drew Hermione’s attention and curiosity, however. She could never recall having seen Draco Malfoy in short sleeves. The subconscious temptation was more than she could resist; she looked at his left forearm. What she saw there surprised her, but not unpleasantly. Where the Dark Mark had once marred his skin, an intricate and colorful dragon now decorated the same space. It was immediately clear that Draco noticed her glance.

He made a noise in his throat that he hoped she would interpret as amusement rather than annoyance. “Yeah, quite the beauty, if I do say so,” he commented, extending his arm toward her so that she could inspect it in detail.

She hesitantly reached her forefinger toward his arm and barely touched the skin’s surface, noting that it was smooth, although it appeared textured. “That’s an amazing work of art, Draco.”

“It’s okay. You can ask,” he encouraged calmly. “In fact, I know the question, so I’ll answer it.” He glanced toward the floor, then back to her face. His expression was a combination of melancholy, embarrassment, and the tiniest hint of defiance. “When the Dark Lord was defeated, his mark faded quite a lot over time, but didn’t disappear entirely. I couldn’t stand to look at the thing, and glamours only worked temporarily, so I had a tattoo artist cover it with this. I’m pretty happy with the way it turned out.”

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Hermione whispered. “Please forgive my rude inquisitiveness. It’s just that I’ve never seen what happened to anyone…” Her voice trailed off; she seemed unable to complete the sentence in a way that wouldn’t result in dragging up unpleasant memories for both of them. Stopping there, before her desire to vanish into the floorboards became manifest, appeared to be the most prudent option.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” he replied. “At some point, if we’re really to become friends, we’re going to have to confront some of those old demons and find ways to banish them. Otherwise, there’ll always be discomfort and unpleasant history between us.”

“I know; you’re right. It’s just unbelievably insensitive and cruel of me to bring it up on our first, um, private, uh, time together.”

Draco laughed. “If it makes it any easier, I consider this our second ‘date’ and it’s perfectly acceptable to call it that. We got the first one out of the way last weekend, so no ‘first date’ pressures tonight.” His eyes were twinkling with amusement. “Besides, it was fairly provocative to have this beast on display. It’s just too bloody hot to wear long sleeves, though, even with cooling charms.”

“So we are going to be outside?” she asked, glancing with dubious thoughts past his shoulder to the window streaked with rain, but desperate to send the conversation along a new track.

“Yes, we are, but not here. We’re going somewhere that I can just about guarantee will have perfectly blue skies, pleasant temperatures, and copious amounts of sand. Before we leave, though, I just want to make sure of timing. When do you need to be back?” Draco inquired.

Hermione shook her head. “The kids are with their father all weekend. I don’t have to worry about being home at any specific time.”

“Oh, good. That will make our visit more relaxed, since we won’t be rushing to beat a deadline. Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.

“I take it we’re Apparating?” Hermione deduced.

“Yes, and I’ll need to take you Side-Along because I can guarantee you’ve never been there before,” he clarified.

“Fair enough,” she answered, grasping his forearms with both of her hands. She closed her eyes in anticipation of the tug of displacement and kept them tightly squeezed until she felt Draco steadying her when they came to a stop.

“You can open your eyes now,” he whispered into her ear.

She did, and gasped at what she saw. They were standing on a large flagstone patio that overlooked a vast expanse of white sand beach and crystal-blue sea. Draco hadn’t been lying about the weather. It was hot and sunny, but there was a pleasant breeze coming off the water. “Beautiful,” she uttered.

“Yeah, I’ve always liked it here,” Draco acknowledged.

“Um, where is ‘here’?” Hermione wondered.

“We’re at my family’s beach house on Crete. I had wanted to do a nice little picnic somewhere, and had planned to do it somewhere locally, but as you know, the weather failed to cooperate. Thus, this was my next option,” he explained with a shrug.

Hermione had turned to see the “beach house” that Draco had referenced. It wasn’t like any beach house she’d ever seen, with its tall columns and three stories. The building had to be easily ten or twelve thousand square feet, and it was as majestic as it was large.

“We won’t be going inside, at least for now. I thought we’d walk along the beach for a bit, and then have dinner at the shoreline. I have some blankets and cushions that we can use to be comfortable.” Draco waved a hand to indicate the direction to the marble steps that led to the sand.

When they reached the bottom, Draco paused for a moment and reached down to slip off his sandals. “Nothing better than the feel of sand between your toes,” he opined. “Feel free to take yours off, if you wish. The sand is pristine here.” He took another few seconds to roll up the bottom of his trousers to mid-calf. “Just in case,” he added with a shrug and grin.

Hermione smiled and removed her own sandals, thinking how utterly odd it was to see Draco Malfoy doing something as thoroughly normal as walking barefoot in the sand. “May I ask you a really odd question?”

“Of course; that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Getting to know each other?”

She felt her cheeks flush a little, but decided to dive in with her observation and its inherent query. “You are so fair-skinned that it’s just… unexpected to find you enjoying a beach. Is this something you do…often?”

He laughed heartily at both her observation and that she thought to question how he kept his complexion. “It’s entirely true that I have ridiculously pale skin, but I do love the beach. I have to take careful precautions when I’m here, or my skin burns horribly. I use a shielding spell to prevent that. It’s pretty strong, so I can spend several hours in the sun without getting even a little pink. When I was little, I made that mistake a couple of times and suffered the consequences. After that, Mum would use the spell on me until I was old enough to cast it for myself. Mystery solved,” he concluded.

“And to answer your specific question, I used to come here nearly every weekend in the winter, just to get away from our cold, rainy weather. In the summer, it’s a little less often, but with a fair amount of regularity. The last year or so, I haven’t been here as often, mostly because of… well, you know about my difficulties.

“Besides,” he added, “the sun will be going down in about ninety minutes, so I don’t think we need to worry about sunburn.”

“Quite true,” she acknowledged. “That’s another unusual thing that makes our experience of the wizarding world a little different. I’d have never thought of using a shielding charm to protect my skin from the sun. I’ve always just used Muggle sun-block creams.” She paused for a moment, considering whether she had the guts to make the request. What the hell; why not? “Would you be willing to teach me?”

“Of course. It’s just a simple variation on the usual charm you’d use for self-defense. It’s longer-lasting and sits right against your skin rather than forming a broad perimeter around your body. I’ll cast one on you now and show you how to modify it for other things, too.” He plucked his wand from his trouser pocket and waved it over her head, speaking the accompanying spell and demonstrating the appropriate flick variation by casting it on himself as well.

“Like what?”

“As a bug repellent. Can’t stand stinging and biting things,” he commented with a shudder.

“That’s darned handy. I wonder why some of my pureblood friends didn’t know about it,” she mused.

“I’d guess that they do, but it’s just such an everyday thing that they didn’t think to mention it. Remind me later, and I’ll walk through the other modifications. For now, though, our dinner awaits.” Draco gestured broadly to indicate the direction they should walk.

While they strolled toward the shore, Draco pointed out various features of the property and distant land masses, keeping up a pleasant, if somewhat impersonal, narrative. Hermione responded with appropriate noises of appreciation and interest. When they were about thirty yards from the water, Draco waved his wand and muttered a few words. A large, multi-colored quilt appeared on the sand, stacked with big, squishy cushions and smaller pillows. The wicker basket in the center undoubtedly held their dinner.

“Shall we?” he invited, handing Hermione an extra pillow as she settled onto the cotton surface. He opened the basket, which contained plates, wine glasses and utensils along with the temperature-charmed food. “I hope you like Greek cuisine. I ordered this from one of our favorite local restaurants, and they’re usually quite good.”

“I love Greek food, and if there’s even a hint of baklava in that basket, we can be friends for the next sixty years or so,” Hermione promised with a laugh.

Draco smiled as he uncorked a lovely bottle of white wine. “This isn’t quite the quality of the Cheval Blanc we had last week, but it’s quite tasty.” He poured a glass for her, then for himself. “To another step in the thawing of Gryffindor-Slytherin relations,” he toasted, touching his glass to hers. They both took a sip and savored the bright, clean Pinot Grigio. “And just to put your mind at ease, baklava is definitely on the menu.”

He pulled out each of the serving platters and encouraged Hermione to fill her plate. She selected a sample of each item, including a small piece of the roasted chicken; the rich aroma of garlic and oregano promised an authentic Greek experience with even that simple dish. Draco followed her example and peered into the basket before taking a single bite.

“What?” Hermione wondered when she saw his broad grin.

“They included a bottle of ouzo and a carafe of espresso,” he informed her.

“As much as I enjoy Greek food, I must confess that I’ve never tried ouzo. Is it strong?”

“Very,” he confirmed. “It’ll knock you on your arse if you’re not careful.”

“Then I’m sure I’ll need to be extremely cautious. I’m a well-known lightweight when it comes to drinking. Wine is one thing; strong alcohol is quite another.”

“Is that why you weren’t drinking Firewhisky when everyone else was?” Draco wondered.

“Yes and no. I’ve never really developed a taste for Firewhisky, but the few occasions that I’ve had it, I was most certainly well on my way to pissed after just a drink or two. Now, I steer clear at every opportunity,” she confessed.

“I promise I won’t let you get pissed, but I do hope you’ll at least try a taste. Just so that you can say you’ve had the entire Greek experience, you understand,” he cajoled, a smirk playing on his lips.

“In such an idyllic setting, I’ll make every effort to become fully immersed,” she teased. “As long as you keep your promise to feed me baklava before the evening is done, of course.”

“You have my most solemn oath,” he allowed, placing a hand over his heart to convey his promise amidst their banter.

Over the next hour, they ate heartily and drank moderately while continuing the process they’d begun a week earlier. Both would admit to friends later that it’s an odd thing to get to know someone with whom you’ve been acquainted for many years, and odder still when your preconceived notions of that person turn out to be dramatically different from the reality of their character and personality.

Hermione was pleasantly surprised at Draco’s never-ending wit and chivalrous behavior and Draco was stunned by Hermione’s lightheartedness and easy give and take. Their decades-old experience of each other had left very different impressions than the truths they were now uncovering. They both continued to find common interests, and where they had differences, found the debate over them exhilarating. Their well-matched intelligence allowed for arguments to be presented without anger, and points of view to be expressed with as much passion as evidence. 

Draco would have been content to lounge on the quilt for many hours but noted that the ocean breeze had picked up in intensity, demonstrated by the occasional shiver from his companion. “Shall we walk a bit, then maybe go inside to finish our dessert?” Draco suggested.

Hermione nodded readily. “That sounds like a great idea.” She was helped to her feet by the gentle tug from Draco’s outstretched hand. “Thanks,” she said, feeling a bit of surprise but no disappointment when he failed to relinquish his grasp.

“Juji will bring the rest of our things up to the patio,” he noted when she glanced back at the wicker basket containing their baklava and espresso. They’d yet to sample the ouzo, too.

The trek back to the patio took about ten minutes, and the on-shore breeze picking up further gave Draco an excuse to do what he’d been tempted to do for what felt like weeks. He draped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer. “You must be freezing; the temperature seems to have dropped twenty degrees,” he noted.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” she replied. When Draco interpreted her comment as a mild rebuke for his physical proximity and began to shift away, she grabbed the hand that rested near her collarbone. “Now,” she amended, looking at him with a teasing grin.

He relaxed again and they continued their trip along the sand. “Would you rather come inside for a quick tour, or have dessert on the patio?” he offered. “If you’d like, I could cast a warming charm around us.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to see the house,” she said, adding, “and I could do with a visit to the ladies’ room.”

“Absolutely. I’ll get everything set up in the sitting room, then.” He guided her to one of the property’s six powder rooms and gave her brief directions. “When you’re done, take a left out of the door, and it’s the third door on the right.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

Draco left her to her own devices while he went to check on the arrangements down the hall. Finding that Juji’s ever-efficient service had met his requirements, he settled onto the loveseat and stretched his legs to wait for Hermione’s return.

Just moments later, she appeared in the doorway, and he rose to greet her. “I see you found your way without a problem,” he kidded her.

“Due only to your impeccable directions, and of course, the desperately short distance between points A and B,” she responded.

He smiled and waved his hand toward the loveseat on which he’d been relaxing. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll pour us some ouzo.”

“Just a tiny bit,” she cautioned. “I don’t want to fall flat on my arse.”

“Well, if you did, I promise I’d catch you before your cheeks hit the floor,” Draco retorted, his tone oddly serious.

She couldn’t help it, no matter how hard she bit the inside of her cheek or struggled to keep her lips pressed tightly together. Her eyes started to water first, and for a moment, Draco’s face wore a horrified mien that hinted at his fear that he had somehow offended her. Barely a second later, a roar of laughter escaped from her and she was nearly apoplectic with it in just the blink of an eye. Her mirth was so complete and so contagious that he had no choice but to join her in it, although not understanding at all why she’d found his comment so hilarious. Clearly, though, she had. The tears streaming down her face while great guffaws shook her shoulders were ample evidence. Draco flushed a bit, hoping against all odds that she wasn’t really laughing at him, but maybe over him. Her breath shuddered a few times as she tried to compose herself, and she reached into her ever-handy beaded bag for the linen handkerchief she knew would be there. 

She spoke as she dabbed at her cheeks, removing the evidence of her fit of laughter. “Oh, Draco, I’m sorry, but that’s one of the most priceless things I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

“It wasn’t that funny,” he grumbled lightly.

“Of course it wasn’t, you dolt. It was the delivery that made it hilarious. You have the most dead-pan manner sometimes that it makes your deliberate jokes even funnier. Or maybe it’s just all the wine we’ve had tonight. Or maybe it just struck me. I’m sorry; I’ve made you self-conscious and uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention, I promise,” she babbled, trying to back-track on her mortifying, embarrassing display. “Now I’ve humiliated myself,” she announced, her face turning a bright shade of pink, bordering on fuchsia, and buried her face in her hands. When she looked up a moment later, she saw Draco’s expression flitting between amusement and… oh, Merlin, was that… ?

“You know, I’ve never thought much about what it would be like to see you really let go, to just give in to whatever was happening in the moment. I think that’s something I’d like to see more of,” he told her, his voice husky and low. He reached over to flip a stray curl off her forehead. “You’re quite beautiful when you laugh.”

That made her blush again, just when she’d thought she’d regained control of her sensibilities. “Draco, no one would ever mistake me for beautiful,” she retorted, sure that he’d been sipping some of the ouzo without her.

“No,” he shook his head, “there’s no mistake at all. If you remember the old adage, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If I’m the beholder, I get to decide what’s beautiful to me. Right now, admittedly much to my own surprise, that’s you. That probably would not have happened ten years ago, but I’m learning that what’s beautiful to me has taken on many new dimensions.”

“You know, I think we should stop all this nonsense talk about beauty and focus on what’s really important,” she interrupted in an attempt to deflect his attention from a topic that clearly made her uncomfortable.

“And what might that be?” Draco wondered, with full recognition of her thinly veiled premise.

“Dessert, of course. And that sample of ouzo you promised, although I’m not so sure you haven’t already had some,” she laughingly accused.

“If I’m drunk, it’s only on your loveliness,” he complimented, sure that his comment would drag her back, however unwillingly, to their previous topic.

She was no slouch in manipulating conversation, however. “See? That just proves my point. You need a little food in your stomach to counteract all the alcohol.”

“Between us, we’ve had one bottle of wine. That’s just slightly more than two glasses each - over the course of about four hours, mind you. I know you say you’re a lightweight, but that tiny amount of drink wouldn’t even make my nose tingle, let alone affect my perception or reasoning. I’m as sober as a Wizengamot Chief Warlock,” he professed.

“In the interest of accommodating your ravenous sweet tooth, I will drop all talk of beauty, loveliness, and attraction in favor of serving the most heavenly baklava you’ve ever eaten. And I promise, only one shot of ouzo for each of us, unless of course, you request more.”

“Agreed!” she exclaimed, happy that the conversation would move to new territory. That didn’t mean that what he’d said would be quickly forgotten, and Hermione was now very aware of how often and how intently Draco’s gaze rested upon her. Even more disconcerting and confusing was the deep attention he paid to everything she said.

He served her a generous piece of the flaky, honey-drenched dessert on a small porcelain plate and poured a shot of the ouzo for her to try. Taking the same servings for himself, Draco watched with rapt attention as Hermione relished the sweet, sticky treat. It was clear to him that she hadn’t been kidding when she’d professed her love of the delicacy, and he found it strangely enthralling to watch her absolute delight. It made him wonder what else could elicit such a dramatic reaction from her. It made him wonder what it would take to get her to respond to him that way. The very thought made him gulp heavily, particularly as he watched her lick sweet honey from her lips while groaning happily. He had to bite back a moan of his own.

“Draco, this is easily the very best baklava I’ve ever tasted,” she professed.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he replied, hoping that his voice hadn’t sounded as strained and tense to her ears as it had to his own. He was sure she couldn’t have failed to notice that he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from her face.

Hermione lifted the shot glass that Draco had filled with the ouzo and sniffed at it experimentally. The anise aroma was certainly pleasant, but it also foretold of an extremely high concentration of alcohol. She met his forceful gaze, and wondered what he seemed to find so fascinating in watching her.

Draco lifted his own glass and saluted her with it. “Down in one, Hermione, if you want the full experience,” he cajoled. “It’ll burn more if you sip at it.”

She gave him a dubious glance, but shrugged in acceptance and tossed her head back while swallowing in one go. “Wow,” she gasped once she regained her breath.

He chuckled at her reaction. “Good ‘wow’ or horrified ‘wow’?”

“Uh, still deciding, I think,” she replied with a laugh.

He lifted the bottle in offering. “Do you need another one to be sure?” He knew his grin held nothing but mischief and hoped that she would take it as a sign of his attraction and interest.

“I really shouldn’t,” she hedged, but her body language and eye contact told him that she would.

“Aw, come on. Live a little,” he needled, knowing her answer already.

“Well, okay,” she finally agreed aloud, “but only because I don’t have to be home early.”

“Or at all,” he muttered under his breath, surprising himself with the thought. Seeing her behaving with such a sense of fun and freedom had upped the ante on his rapidly growing enthrallment for the Muggle-born witch.

It seemed that two things were true. First, he hadn’t spoken quite as quietly as he’d thought. Second, Hermione Granger’s hearing was remarkably acute. She lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “Are you coming on to me, Draco?” she challenged, though she sounded anything but angry.

“Uh, I guess my answer to that depends on one thing,” he stalled.

“And what would that be?” she questioned while accepting the refilled glass of ouzo from his outstretched hand.

“On which answer gets me a slap across the face and which one allows me to steal a kiss,” he replied, broadening his smile and reaching for her free hand. “I never thought that I could be so attracted to you,” Draco added.

“That’s hardly surprising, Draco,” she scoffed. “After all, the last time we saw each other prior to last week, you were still calling me ‘Mudblood.’”

He flushed with embarrassment and dismay, and shook his head in denial. “No, no,” he protested. “That came out all wrong. I didn’t mean it that way at all.”

“What did you mean, then? I’ve never known you to be inarticulate, even in your insults.” She was enjoying teasing him in his mild discomfort.

“That’s the point, Hermione,” he professed. “You’ve got me all tongue-tied. I feel like I’m a fifth-year all over again when I’m with you.”

“I’m not sure if I should feel flattered or horrified by that,” Hermione replied with a wry grin.

Draco sighed and took a moment to ostensibly inspect the pattern in the area rug while re-composing what he’d really wanted to say to her. “What I meant is that I’ve never been attracted to anyone the way I’ve been drawn to you, and so quickly, too. It’s been rather overwhelming, and unexpected in that I never knew that I could feel this way, period. It’s exciting and terrifying all at once, and I’m not sure how to process the whole thing.”

“Oh,” she whispered, swallowing heavily as she heard his confession, finding it more of a revelation than she’d expected to hear.

He looked at her with a mixture of hope and fear, wondering whether he’d have been better off keeping his mouth shut entirely. Her reaction hadn’t been unmitigated delight, but nor had it been appalled disgust, as far as he could tell. In fact, it hadn’t been anything remotely identifiable.

“Uh,” he started in an uncomfortable stammer. “It’s okay; I don’t expect you to…”

She stopped him with a finger pressed against his mouth and a shake of her head. “Don’t say anything, please. I just need to allow that to sink in for a minute. It’s… unexpected and flattering and sweet and surprising. Yes, definitely surprising.” The way she closed her eyes for a moment hinted at… relishment.

Draco relaxed just a little; at least she hadn’t told him that his admission was unwelcome.

She dropped her finger away, dragging it slightly against his lower lip; she noticed his eyes darkening and the tiniest shudder in reaction. She concluded that his response was not easily feigned. He’d been telling the truth.

Hermione appeared to be seriously deliberating her own response. She’d had a really great time - better than she’d dared to hope – but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to fully leap into a physical relationship with the man who’d been one of the greatest rivals of her school years, no matter how much he seemed to have grown and how charming he’d been in the bare handful of encounters they’d had. If she was honest with herself, she wouldn’t deny that she felt a strong attraction to the tall blond, one that certainly seemed worth further exploration. She knocked back the ouzo while keeping eye contact with the handsome wizard.

“Let’s say that I’m… not displeased with your declaration. And in the interest of truthfulness and progress, let’s assume that I… reciprocate your feelings. That being true, where would that leave us, hypothetically speaking?” she hedged, keeping him on a tether for just a little bit longer.

He leaned forward, surprising her only slightly. “Well, for one thing, it would lead us here,” he whispered into her ear, nuzzling the shell with the tip of his nose. He traced tiny kisses from her earlobe, along her jaw-line to her chin, then gently captured her bottom lip between his own, tasting the slightly sticky sweetness left over from the traditional Greek treat.

Hermione wasn’t really surprised; he’d been giving subtle signals about his attraction to her all evening. Her problem, as always, was that her brain didn’t necessarily want to get into the same gear as the rest of her. She’d always suffered from over-thinking, and a bit of self-doubt about her own appeal to the opposite sex, and this moment was no exception. Does he like me for who I am, or for what I can give him? Is his interest in me genuine? Why would he want me that way? Those thoughts swirled and buffeted her, elevating her doubt to a level approaching panic. That was until Draco moved closer, and she got all the confirmation she needed of his magnetism to her. The hard length that pressed against her hip as he tried to get closer to her was remarkably irrefutable evidence. Shut up, Hermione, she scolded her brain. Go with it, you fool!

And she did, for many minutes.

Draco knew he’d been slightly… eager when he’d decided to kiss Hermione, and the long period of abstinence had taken its toll. He fought with every ounce of strength to hold back; he would not humiliate himself by dry-humping the woman. Getting close to her, however, was an imperative. If there was incidental contact, well, he could hardly help that. Yeah, like I even buy that myself, he mentally chided. He was feeling something akin to desperation, but he would not push this until she made it clear she wanted to head in the same direction. That hadn’t happened, yet. 

Her signals, however, had been growing increasingly warm. She hadn’t shoved him away at the first press of his lips against hers; in fact, she’d been pleasantly yielding and delightfully participative in their first full snog, once she’d made it past her obvious initial confusion over how forward he’d been. Now, she was giving as good as he was, and their lips found happy, enthusiastic joining with necks, earlobes, jaw-lines, and – in his boldest move yet – collar bones, while two pairs of hands roamed shoulders, ribs, backs, and arms. Somehow, Draco had freed her hair from its tight French braid and had buried one hand in her soft, luxurious curls. Merlin, she smells like heaven and tastes like paradise, he thought, and groaned aloud with the thought. That seemed to bring Hermione back to earth just a bit and Draco felt her draw away slightly.

“Sorry,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair in equal amounts of embarrassment and frustration.

She peered at him, eyes as heavy-lidded as his own. “No need, Draco. I, uh, have, um, enjoyed this quite a lot,” she offered.

“But?” he asked, reading her unspoken protest.

“It’s not that I’m not interested – far from that, actually – I just…” she trailed off, not knowing how to tell him that she was, frankly, scared of how quickly they had reached this point.

He raised a hand. “I get it. Too fast. That’s fine, Hermione, seriously. I’m not looking for a hot shag here; I think we could have something real between us and I’d rather not risk that. We’ll get there if and when we’re both ready for it.”

She sighed, but neither of them could be sure whether it was in relief or disappointment. “Thank you, Draco. I think we will, but tonight is just… too soon.”

He nodded and smiled genuinely. “Shall I escort you home, then?”

When he saw indecision and the slightest hint of disappointment cross her features, he offered another alternative. “Or, if you prefer, we can stay here tonight – in separate rooms – and wake up to a wonderful brunch on the beach tomorrow.”

Her lips twisted for a bare second of indecision until she spoke suddenly. “Can we have real feta cheese Greek omelets for breakfast?”

“Your wish is my command.” Draco laughed, offering his arm to guide her to the room that had been prepared for overnight guests “just in case.”

When he opened the beautiful white and green boudoir for her inspection, she gasped in delight at the lovely space that overlooked the ocean. “I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable here,” she noted with a mischievous grin.

“If you’re not, you are more than welcome to join me in my room, right next door,” he offered suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows to indicate that he was teasing - mostly. “Good night, Hermione.” He leaned down to kiss her once more, leaving both of them breathless. When they finally parted, he waited until she closed the door to make his way toward his own accommodations. He could have sworn that he heard something from the other side of the door, though. It sounded a little like “Wow.” He laughed joyously and began to prepare for bed, and for what he knew would likely be a restless night (unless, of course, he decided to take matters into his own hands, he thought, mentally excusing himself with his Healer’s standing orders). This could be… Wow, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

When Hermione awoke in the lovely guest room at the crack of dawn, wearing only the man’s white shirt that she’d found hanging in the painted white wardrobe, she debated whether to make a quick escape or to stay and have the breakfast that Draco had promised when they’d officially parted at her door the night before. Her anguish was due mostly to an extreme case of embarrassment, and not a little trepidation about what a morning meeting with Draco might bring. After what she’d seen in the darkness of his room, she was desperately torn about how to handle the whole thing…

_Three hours of tossing and turning in the most comfortable bed in which she’d ever slept had Hermione ready to tear her hair out by the roots. Being truthful with herself and similarly honest with Draco, however, were two different things. Their post-dinner amorous encounter had left her itching for contact. It had been nearly five months since she’d felt the touch of a man, and she was, without doubt, a healthy, physical young woman. Her own hand, she knew beyond question, would not be enough to satisfy the ache she was feeling, so she didn’t even try. The buzz in her blood reached such a level that she couldn’t help but rise from her bed and move toward the door – and Draco’s open invitation to use it, should she be in need._

_Her feet, seemingly moving of their own volition, took her to his bedroom. Her hands, without a conscious command, twisted the doorknob and pushed the heavy wooden door open. Her eyes, adjusting quickly to the darkness aided by the bright glow of moonlight through the windows’ sheer drapes, saw that the man in the immense, cream silk-covered bed was thrashing about. Her ears, attuned to the only sound save the crash of ocean waves, heard his moans and utterances. Her mind, finally clearing from her own haze of unfulfilled arousal, understood in the space of seconds what was happening. “Hermione!” she heard, and with a prayer that it had been his cry of release and not an acknowledgement of her presence, she fled the room in an instant._

_She had returned to her bed, breathing heavily and more aroused than she could remember being in all her life. If there were ever proof of the truth of Draco’s attraction to her, what she’d just seen was undoubtedly it. He’d sounded desperate – feverish, even – in his apparent need for her. As wanting as her own body was, Hermione’s rational mind was wondering how the reality of her could possibly stack up to his expectations, and how they’d both reached this point of aching desire for each other so quickly. Was it just the lack of a regular partner, she wondered, or could there be something between the two of them that was truly so simpatico, so right, that had led them to this point so swiftly? At this moment, she was too shaky, too scared, and too mortified at having intruded on such a private moment to find out._

_Her inner Gryffindor chided her for being cowardly, the tiny voice urging her to go back to the room she’d left so hastily and take the proverbial bull by the horns. The rational and logical portion of her brain that had nearly been sorted into Ravenclaw almost two decades ago urged her to be deliberate and circumspect, considering all potential courses of action and their likely outcomes. The fact that she’d been the one to put the brakes on earlier would also make her seem like a flake, she thought, if she decided to make a move on him now. The tiny cunning part of her that would have thrived in Slytherin told her to use what she knew about Draco’s need for her to her advantage, to gain everything she could from what she’d seen and heard. And the very little bit of Hufflepuff in her felt just a smidgen of guilt that she’d wanted a man other than the one she’d vowed to love, honor, and cherish, ‘til death do them part. A quick internal reminder that the louse had cheated on her, however, quickly banished that uncomfortable sentiment. So, that left her with the dilemma unsolved: what to do, what to do?_

Unable to reach a definitive decision, Hermione went with the passive one and did nothing. She stayed in the luxurious bed that had been afforded her for the night, tossing and turning fitfully, and catching only moments of dream-interrupted sleep throughout the long, hot night. That those dreams were filled with steamy kisses and lingering caresses from a tall, slim, white-blond man did not escape her conscious mind.

After what seemed like the shortest and longest night she’d ever spent – at least since the horrors in the forest during what would have been her seventh year – Hermione was awakened by the ever-increasing amounts of sunlight streaming through the windows. That’s when her latest internal debate had begun.

A bold knock on her door and a pleasant tenor voice calling her name startled her from her on-going argument. “Hermione! Are you up?” Draco asked through the closed door.

Shite, she thought, I guess it would be too awkward to just leave now.

“I am, Draco,” Hermione answered. “Hold on a second.” After reluctantly dragging herself out of bed, a quick glance through the clothing in the wardrobe turned up nothing in the way of a dressing gown, so she transfigured the shirt she’d worn into a knee-length bathrobe, retaining the fabric’s original composition while shifting its color to a deep rose pink; changing it to silk or satin would have required more time and effort than she cared to expend at the moment. She pulled the door open and saw that Draco was carrying a large tray of food; he’d obviously intended to bring her breakfast in bed.

Draco’s face bore a broad smile and he nodded toward the far side of the room. “May I?” he asked, seeking permission to set the feast on a low table near the pair of brocade arm chairs that sat in front of the French doors leading to a balcony. At her nod of assent, he placed the tray, containing Greek omelets, crusty toast made from artisanal bread, fresh fruit, strong coffee (in keeping with the Greek custom), homemade strawberry jam, and a tall carafe of orange juice on the glass surface. He called for Juji, who arrived with a pop to ensure that they had all the appropriate china and utensils.

Hermione had been very quiet, not speaking other than her first acknowledgement of his presence at her door. Draco had, on the other hand, kept up a steady prattle in describing the meal that he’d prepared for them. She distantly heard him disparage his own skill as a cook, saying, “I’m not much use in the kitchen, with the exception of breakfast. I make a mean omelet, so I hope you’ll enj…” He stopped abruptly, looking at her intently.

“Is everything all right, Hermione?” he inquired, concern pulling lines into his forehead.

He thought she looked upset, or maybe troubled. He was slightly mollified when she shook her head lightly and pasted a smile on her face.

“I’m fine; I just didn’t sleep terribly well last night.”

“Was the bed not to your liking?” he wondered, adding, “I’ll replace the mattress with a different type if you stay again.”

“Oh, not necessary, Draco. The mattress was perfect. I just… had a lot on my mind, I guess.” She shrugged and added a strained laugh that she thought he probably accepted. After all, he didn’t know her that well, yet.

Draco was worried, now. He’d come on a little strong and he hoped that she hadn’t been angered or offended by his forwardness. Although, he recalled, she hadn’t been pushing him away, at least until the last moment. Deciding to stick to his pledge to play this straight, he confronted the potential problem head-on. “Did I do something to upset you?” he asked quietly and urgently.

“No, Draco,” she reassured with a hand on his arm. “Really, I was just… restless.”

He laughed lightly, and thought he’d tease her just a little to further lift the mood. “Well, you should have come over to visit, then.”

The flicker in her eyes told Draco that she was debating something, and seemingly having finally reached a decision as to how she would proceed, Hermione met his eyes directly and didn’t release her gaze. “I… did.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, accidentally spreading some of the jam that he’d been adding to his toast over his thumb. All the color, what little of it there was, drained from Draco’s face, and just as quickly, he flushed hotly, ears, cheeks and neck suddenly bright pink. “Uh…”

Hermione smiled and reached for his hand, the one with a light coating of strawberry preserves, and lifted the sticky digit to her mouth. Keeping eye contact, she opened her mouth and guided his thumb in, wrapping her lips and tongue around it and sucking softly, then swirling her tongue to clean off every last bit of the sweet spread. She couldn’t help but notice that Draco’s breathing had quickened and his hand was trembling slightly.

He was certain that she had to have noticed the heavy gulp of air that forced his Adam’s apple to bob, and he stared slack-jawed as she released his finger from her mouth, pulling his hand away and allowing her teeth to lightly graze it as it passed slowly through her lips.

“I take it that you weren’t kidding when you said that you were attracted to me, were you?” she asked, keeping hold of his hand.

Draco couldn’t do more than shake his head. He was happily stunned at the quick turn of events, but not yet sure how this scenario might play out. He thought it best to wait and see what Hermione wanted.

“Good,” she said. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

He dared not move a muscle as she rose from her seat, still holding his hand in hers, and moved to stand immediately beside him.

“You see, the real reason that I couldn’t sleep last night was that I was so… wired after our little make-out session, that I just couldn’t stand it.”

Hermione lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm. “I know that I’m the one who said we should stop last night, but I… spent three hours re-thinking that decision before I went to see you. I must admit that I was a little… freaked out when I saw what you were doing.”

He opened his mouth to offer some explanation, some excuse, but she stopped him with her fingers over his lips.

“I wasn’t turned off; to the contrary, I was immensely aroused by the idea that you were so turned on by me that you couldn’t help touching yourself. I… didn’t want to embarrass you. And, I suppose, I didn’t want you to think I was… some slag, either.” She paused for a moment when he shook his head in denial and made noises of protest. “But the thing is, Draco, I’m really attracted to you too, and I’m tired of having a horrible, boring sex life. We’ve found so many things in common already, and I was hoping that maybe… you and I might be compatible that way, too.”

Draco was trembling in his effort to maintain his self-control and he wondered if she was shaking inside as much as he was. If he had to guess, he’d lay odds that she’d rarely been so sexually forward, based on her comments indicating that her ex-husband had been a boring, vanilla lover. He surmised that the creep had focused more of his energy on getting off than in pleasing his partner. If her reaction to him was any indication, this witch was a tiger waiting to be un-caged. He found himself desperately hoping that he had the proper key.

He took her pause as an opportunity to stand, and gathered her close to him. He used his free hand – she still hadn’t relinquished her hold on the other one – to lift the curls near her left ear, and he ran the tip of his tongue along the outer edge, breathing warm puffs against her neck. “I’m more than willing to find out,” he whispered. “Are you?”

He could feel the nod of her head, and the tilt of her chin toward him, and that was all the acknowledgement he needed. He took their joined hands and reached behind Hermione’s back to tug her flush against him, not at all embarrassed that his suddenly evident arousal was pressing insistently into her stomach, and fastening his lips to hers in a way that threatened that he’d never let go. His kiss was firm and lush, and Hermione’s responding whimper seemed to be one of delight and pleasure. He couldn’t help but think that she had the softest, sweetest, most pliable lips he’d ever tasted.

Draco’s fingers threaded through her curls and his palm cupped the back of her head, ensuring the she was pressed close at every possible point. As he molded his lips against hers, Draco tried to convey all the passion and want he was feeling while not coming on so strong as to scare her away again; it was a delicate balance, considering his consuming level of urgency. It wasn’t long before his gentle bussing of her upper lip and insistent tugging at her lower lip gave way to full capture of both, and he flicked the tip of his tongue against hers when she gasped at the feel of his fingers trailing along the nape of her neck.

Draco loved kissing; it was an art as much as a knack and he poured his soul into expressing himself as a lyrical performer. Their kiss was every bit as much a dance between them as their waltz had been, and the precision with which he used his mouth, lips, tongue, and teeth resembled the skill required of a concert pianist’s fingers on ebony and ivory. While he maintained the bulk of the control, it was clear that Hermione was responding in kind. One really can’t, after all, kiss alone, he recognized. When he felt her tease her tongue along the roof of his mouth, extracting a delicious shiver, Draco knew that being with her would be something he’d never forget; she was not a recipient, but a full participant. As much as he despised that the thought crept in at this moment, he couldn’t help it; the comparison between this woman and his former wife left the latter sorely lacking.

While he had no intention of relinquishing his hold on Hermione’s lips at the moment, Draco wanted nothing more than to expand his exploration of the delectable witch in his arms. He gently tugged away the hand she’d been holding (so tight that it had started to tingle) and stroked his fingers along her spine. The relatively thin cotton of the bathrobe she’d transfigured told the story that there was nothing underneath but sweet, soft woman. He used gentle pressure to trace and massage each of her vertebrae from neck to the soft swell just as her derriere began, and back again. By the third pass, she was trembling in his arms, particularly as he’d dipped slightly lower each time, ending with his hand gently resting fully on her firm and luscious right rear cheek.

He was glad that she had been far from idle; Hermione had used the opportunity to trace his strong, broad shoulders and lean, lithe back, gently massaging the muscles that had become rigid in his anxious expectation. Draco relaxed under her tender touch and separated his lips from hers only because he reattached them to other parts of her body, paying particular attention when he quickly discovered how much she was aroused by his light suckling on her neck and shoulders. He wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened, but the robe’s belt had come undone, allowing the sides of the wrap to part and ensuring that his access to her sweet flesh was nearly unimpeded. He grasped the edge of the collar in his teeth and dragged it further down her shoulder, growling in appreciation as the swell of her breast was bared to him.

He dropped to one knee and pressed his head against her ribcage, the barely-covered undersides of her breasts grazing the top of his head. He was overjoyed when he felt her hands in his hair, tugging him against her. He tilted his head upward and feathered tiny kisses in a row from left to right, across the breadth of her torso. Draco lifted his eyes to meet hers and whispered his prayer. “Please…”

As he waited for her answer, he felt her lean away slightly and was momentarily devastated for the loss, until she moved her hands to his chest, running them appreciatively along his collarbones and firm pectorals before she began to unbutton the linen shirt he’d donned. Draco felt a huge smile coming on and could do nothing to stop it. He hoped that she saw the real joy in him at that moment. He heard her laugh and wondered what had amused her.

“Draco, if you don’t let go, there’s no way for me to remove your shirt,” she teased.

He was stunned to find that his hands had latched on to either side of her waist, and his grip was quite firm, as if he were expecting her to squirm away at any second and was desperate to forestall that possibility. He felt color rise on his cheeks and he loosened his hold on her, dropping his hands only long enough to allow her to push the fabric over his shoulders and down his arms, mere seconds at the most.

He sought permission in her eyes to fully release her robe from its perch on her own shoulders and wasn’t sure whether he was thrilled or deprived when she shrugged the garment off and allowed it to fall to the floor, leaving her fully nude; as delighted as he was at the result, there was a big part of him that had wanted to rip the thing off her himself. He silently pledged that he’d earn another opportunity to do that very, very soon, assuming that things progressed as he was beginning to hope.

“Merlin, you are lovely,” he told her, moving closer once more to kiss, nip, nuzzle, and lave her from clavicle to navel, rising from his kneeling position to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed she’d left only minutes before.

He concluded that she was nearly as eager as he when he felt her hands on his belt buckle, releasing the metal clasp. He found her fingers to be remarkable deft as they found and made quick work of his trousers’ button and zipper, all without actually touching the aching, turgid organ that sprang free from its confines. He had never been so grateful for the Healer’s orders to go sky-clad as he was in that moment; the fewer separations between himself and Hermione, the better, he thought. Draco pushed the black linen trousers over his hips and kicked them off. He’d been barefoot, thankfully, so he didn’t embarrass himself by getting the legs tangled in shoes. “Please,” he whispered again as he rolled to his side to partially cover her body with his own.

When Hermione reached into the small space between them to trail her fingers lightly along his erection, Draco was sure he’d go off right then. The remarkably different feel of the touch of a woman’s hand, particularly this woman’s hand, from his own over the last several weeks was enough to make him feel like a teenager again. He grunted, sounding decidedly male, and she gripped him slightly harder. “Not yet,” he begged. “It’s been a while, you know.”

“I know. Me, too,” she quietly acknowledged, although he’d guessed that was true without her confession. She hesitated a moment, then spoke again. “I, uh, wonder if you might be open to a request.”

He lifted an eyebrow in question, but rather than speak, he wrapped his lips around a nipple. He thought she probably got the message that he was open to suggestion, anyway. If there were any doubt, he nodded, keeping the bud in his mouth all the while, creating a fabulously intense counterpoint to the strong suckling that his tongue had already begun.

“Let’s… go for it, then see where it takes us from there,” she proposed, gasping at the mirrored feelings tugging at her breast and in her core as his hand traveled down, seeking its heat and finding her completely slick and ready. He loved the way she bucked against the heel of his palm, seeking friction wherever she could find it. He was beginning to think that “tiger” wasn’t even close in describing the beautiful beast he was hoping to unleash.

“Gods, woman, I love the way you think,” Draco declared breathlessly. He was eminently certain that he’d be able to muster up more than one performance for this glorious witch. Stopping sometime this week would be the difficult part, he thought. It almost, however, stopped him cold when he recalled that, not so many weeks ago, he’d despaired over the idea that even touching a Muggle-born would require that he’d need multiple potions and spells to have a hope of even getting stiff. He pushed that thought aside forcefully, the pulsing and wonderful aching in his groin more than sufficient proof that he’d been horribly, ridiculously, entirely wrong. That unusual happenstance made him deliriously cheerful. This woman had him more ready, willing, and able (he hoped) than he’d been in any cogent memory.

Draco crawled up over Hermione’s supine body, graceful as a lynx, and kissed her deeply, wrapping his tongue around hers and probing her mouth deeply. He backed away slightly after a moment. “Tell me, Hermione. Tell me what you want,” he ordered, his voice thick, heavy, and deep.

“All of you,” she answered with the slightest tremor. He chose to believe it was not fear or trepidation, but desire. “Take what you want, Draco.”

He didn’t need to be asked again. Draco knelt on his haunches and stroked her thighs firmly but gently with his strong hands. He nudged them apart further, though she had given him no resistance. “I want to see all of you, Hermione,” he explained. He admired the trimmed triangle of dark chestnut and the pearly pink folds that seemed to twitch under his steady, appreciative stare. His gaze drifted up over her ribs to her full breasts, tipped in dusky rose, and her long, graceful neck. He could see that her dark amber eyes were examining him just as closely as he was her, from strong shoulders down to firm chest, barely dusted with fine golden hair, to taut abdominals and wiry, blond trail leading to his thick, fully-engorged penis, its purple head twitching and throbbing visibly. He could feel how tight his quadriceps were, tensing in anticipation and readiness.

He bent to trail his lips and tongue from her chin, down her neck, along her breast, pausing to swirl her nipples, each in turn. He smiled at her response when he sucked hard, and gasped as loud as she had when he felt her hand gently fondling his sac. He thought he’d die from the pleasure when she rolled his testicles gently, then firmly grasped his shaft, stroking from base to tip. When her thumb determinedly brushed his frenulum and glans, he grasped her wrist to stay her movement, or it would be over before it began.

Draco pulled away slightly, a broad smile on his face, and leaned down further to twirl his tongue around her pearl, teasing her opening with two long fingers. When she tilted her hips to find more contact, he gave her what she wanted and fully buried both digits in her hot, tight cavern. His mouth nibbled lower to taste her essence and he buried his tongue as deeply inside her as he was able while she voiced her pleasure. When he barely tickled her rosette with a fingertip, he thought she would spontaneously combust, so intense was her reaction. He guessed, rightly, that she’d never been touched there intimately. Weasley, he definitively concluded, was a lousy lover, and hadn’t a clue what he’d given up.

Hermione was whispering and urging him on, saying, “Please, Draco, take me now. I need you inside me.”

Having reached a point where there was nothing more he wanted than to find her depths, Draco sat on his heels once more and wrapped his hands around Hermione’s hips, tugging her thighs and center along his own, and positioning his erection against her opening. When he made eye contact with her, he saw trepidation. “Trust me on this; you’ll feel every stroke exactly where you want it,” he promised. When she breathed and nodded, he thrust hard, sheathing inside her in one firm, sure stroke. She was very wet and very ready, and he felt only the natural friction that he expected. He watched as her eyes went wide with realization.

“Oh gods, that’s…. perfect,” she declared, apparently surprised at feeling his length rubbing along her sweet spot from tip to base with his first movement.

When his second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth strokes did the same thing, he thought she might pass out from the intensity of her panting. He changed the angle a little by leaning forward and lifting her up with an arm around her shoulders until she wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing slightly deeper penetration for himself without sacrificing her sensation. He suckled on her neck and gently kneaded one breast while using his other arm as a brace under her hips. He could feel her muscles quivering and heard her whisper in his ear, “I’m so close, Draco. More, please!”

Never one to refuse a lady’s request, Draco snapped his hips against hers with more force and speed, feeling a desperate tension building in his own center. He was certain it wouldn’t take more than a few more strokes to bring them both. He kissed her deeply again, then pulled back fractionally, pleading, “Come for me, Hermione. I want to see you come.”

After three more deep thrusts, Hermione stiffened in his arms, her breath hitching and a long, sensual groan ripping through her chest. He followed her two thrusts later, locking his hips fully against hers to bury himself to the hilt inside her and shouting his release in the form of her name. He collapsed against her for a quick second, then rolled to his back to relieve her of his weight, doing his level best to keep them connected, moving his slim hips rapidly and shallowly to prolong their mutual pleasure for as long as possible.

Draco craned his neck to kiss her tenderly, and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “I’m not letting you go,” he told her with a chuckle, “except to eat and pee.”

Hermione lifted up from his chest to meet his eyes. “That was… spectacular,” she said, blushing to the roots of her hair and lifting her hands to cover her face in embarrassment.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Draco chided, pulling her hands away. “You are beautiful and we were fabulous together. Don’t you dare be embarrassed over something we both wanted.”

“It’s just that… oh, Merlin, how do I say this?” she asked rhetorically.

“You can say anything you like to me, Hermione,” Draco told her, his tone surprisingly sounding much more serious than he’d intended.

“I’ve… never had an orgasm from intercourse before. This was very… special,” she added quietly.

Draco gathered her close again, fully engulfing her in his embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

Hermione was clearly confused. “For what?”

“That you’ve not had the satisfying love life that you deserve. That your ex-husband clearly wasn’t worthy of you. That I didn’t get to know you a dozen years ago.” He caressed her back, trailing his fingers along the curve of her buttocks. “I know this happened… a little sooner than either of us expected, but I really hope that it doesn’t create any strain between us. I’ve come to feel quite strongly for you in an admittedly short time, and I obviously can’t deny how attracted I am to you, and not just physically.”

Hermione interrupted him with a little tickle to his ribs, causing him to capture her hand in his and kiss her fingers before she sent him into a wave of guffaws. He was horribly ticklish and he preferred she not know that just yet. A man had to have one or two defenses left to him.

“I’m serious,” Draco continued, stopping to kiss her forehead. “I don’t think I’ve ever connected quite so well with any woman, mentally, intellectually, socially, and certainly, physically.” He punctuated the last with an upward thrust of his hips, and Hermione’s thigh was poked by his reawakening penis. He was relieved and delighted when she laughed, low and throaty.

“Ready for another round?” she offered, crawling up over him and straddling his hips. Draco held up a hand to stall her for a moment and summoned his wand with a silent Accio. He cast a durable contraceptive spell, one that would allow them to play safely for the whole day if they wished. She smiled appreciatively as he turned his attention fully back to her.

“Absolutely!” he promised, enthusiastically joining her in a scorching kiss.

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When they had finally awakened after a late-morning nap, it had been so long that even the stasis charms on their breakfast had given up the ghost. “Round Two” had been as steamy and energetic as their first time had been, but “Round Three” was the one they’d both remember with the greatest joy. After a short nap, Draco had awakened Hermione with sensual massage and adoring kisses, and they had spent the next hour giving each other tender, sweet pleasure. Months later, Draco would tell her that he had counted it the first time they’d made love.

After a particularly steamy shower, they had eaten a light lunch on the beach and dozed nude in the sun, taking full advantage of Draco’s handy shielding spell, until late afternoon. Hermione was thrilled over the prospect of never having to glop on that horrible, sticky lotion again. The privacy of the locale also had her over the moon with the idea of no tan lines.

As lovely as their unexpected weekend together had turned out, Hermione wanted to get back home before Ron brought the children back, which would happen around six o’clock. Draco had opened the Floo for her use, and they had left each other reluctantly (after three abortive attempts), kissing long and deep each time and with Draco’s heartfelt plea to see her again soon – very soon.

When Hermione awoke the next morning, her sitting room was filled with orange lilies, and another note from Draco. She’d felt giddy (and a little sore in places that hadn’t had so much use since she’d delivered her last child), and happy, and debated long and hard whether to keep all the new developments to herself and relish them privately, or scream her joy from the rooftop. She had compromised, telling Ginny first, then Harry a couple of days later about how quickly her “friendship” with Draco Malfoy had progressed.

Ginny’s reaction had been more positive than Hermione could have hoped. She was clearly still furious with her brother and wanted the woman she’d always think of as her sister to find real happiness. She’d relished the idea that her brother would be so cheesed off over Hermione’s blossoming relationship with the man he hated more than any other; it was fitting karma for the hurt he’d caused.

Harry, whose role in kicking off the treaty between the former enemy camps still surprised him as much as anyone else, had been no less supportive, and had tamped down any remaining skepticism when he saw how happy Hermione was and witnessed, first-hand, Draco’s sweet and sincere expressions of interest and affection. He’d been in Hermione’s office when the third delivery of the week of a small posy of coral roses arrived with a note that simply read, “Thinking of you, D.M.” He had also eavesdropped on the other side of the door, having arrived only seconds after Draco, when the wizard had passionately greeted Hermione and begged her to accompany him on a lunch date, saying, “I couldn’t wait until Saturday to see you again.” The breathlessness and desperation in his voice had been too real for even the best Slytherin poseur to affect.

His only caution to Hermione had been to encourage her to introduce the idea of a new man in her life slowly and deliberately to her children. He and Ginny offered to host a Sunday brunch, inviting not only Draco, Hermione and her children, but Pansy, Blaise and their son, Arturo, who was the same age as Hugo. Hermione agreed readily, recognizing the wisdom of the larger group as being less threatening and momentous than a dinner alone with Draco. If things continued to progress as they had, that event would come soon enough.

When Hermione had relayed the Potters’ invitation, Draco had been enthusiastic about the idea, commenting, “I think it’s time.” He’d been glad, too, that his dearest friends had been included, noting that their broader objectives of building more social alliances would be well-served by the opportunity to introduce their children while they were still young and friendships could be forged without learned prejudices.

Draco’s strategy for the day had been simple: be nice, ask questions, and bring presents. The latter action might have brought him a degree of grief from some quarters with accusations of trying to buy the children’s affection, had he been foolish enough to bring extravagant gifts. Instead, he had been thoughtful and conservative. He’d brought a wizarding coloring book for each of the six children, including Ginny and Harry’s three, the grand total of his expenditure, including the accompanying color-applying wands, being a whopping one Galleon and four Knuts. His foresight, considering another dreadfully rainy day, had been most fortuitous, and the parents had been at least as happy for the timely occupation as the kids. When four-year-old Arturo had invited his “Uncle Draco” to sit with him to help with the correct shades of brown and grey for his owl, the tall wizard had unhesitatingly dropped to the floor, cross-legged, and engaged in a lively and amusing debate with the tot over the creature’s eye color. He had laughed heartily and agreed readily to the compromise of one gold and one green orb.

Draco’s easy camaraderie with one boy had made the other children more comfortable, and before long, he’d been stretching from his seated position to share his sought-out opinion on the best colors for everything from Grindylows to Bowtruckles to the ribbons around a unicorn’s neck. Harry was amused to see his own children tug on the wizard’s shirtsleeve, asking “Uncle Draco’s” advice, and Hermione breathed a great sigh of relief when Rose and Hugo enthusiastically followed suit.

At Draco’s suggestion, Hermione had agreed to allow him to escort them home from Harry’s house, and Hermione had invited him to stay for dinner, treating them all to burgers on the barbecue since the weather had finally cleared. By silent assent, the couple had refrained from overt displays of affection, but it seemed that Rose, at least, was more intuitive than her mother had anticipated, questioning Hermione about the nature of their relationship after the wizard’s departure. Hermione had nearly choked when the child had asked whether Draco was going to be their new daddy, prompting a diversion from Hermione (which Rose had deftly deflected) about how she knew of such concepts.

“Mummy,” she’d said, “don’t you know that after a divorce, kids get new mummies and daddies? It happens all the time!”

Hermione had been flabbergasted and speechless for a long moment, until Ron’s daughter had, in perfect imitation of her irritated mother (arms akimbo and lips firmly pursed), pressed her original question once more. She’d tap-danced and obfuscated, but couldn’t bring herself to outright lie. “Draco is a very good friend to Mummy right now, and I like him very much. If we keep liking each other, and you and Hugo like him too, then, well, maybe. But not just yet. Okay?”

That seemed to mollify the child and she skipped off to get ready for bed, humming – dreadfully off-key, just like her father – the melody of the latest Weird Sisters hit.

Having already settled Hugo in bed, Hermione was finally free to absorb and process everything that had happened during the day. As she sipped a glass of the terrific red wine that Draco had given her, she marveled at the unmitigated success the day had been.

Adding Blaise’s family to the event had been a master stroke of genius, for which she’d eternally bless Ginevra Potter’s name. It had helped to break the ice with the children, had given the parents something to coo over, and had allowed Draco to show that he had a natural and warm manner with children. While that hadn’t been a specific goal by any means, it had happened organically, greatly easing Hermione’s mind about the man and his motives. Better still, he’d demonstrated clearly that it wasn’t just for show when he’d been firm enough to admonish his godson gently when he got a little too boisterous, while knowing when it was time to leave the children to their own devices and pay appropriate attention to the adults in the room.

Hermione had been just as happy about the way the Zabinis had responded to Harry and Ginny’s invitation. They hadn’t hesitated for a second, and had been friendly and charming throughout the afternoon. Pansy, Hermione quickly discovered, had a wicked sense of humor and Blaise was masterful in his ability to tease Draco about anything and everything, showing no mercy. While she couldn’t see them being the kind of incredibly close friends that Harry and Ginny were, she felt optimistic that they could build good relationships. And Draco had been as warm, witty, charming, and attentive as she could have hoped while still respecting her children’s presence. All in all, it had been a very good day.

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Six days, nine Floo calls, three notes, four lunch dates and one heavy make-out session later, Draco was sitting in his mother’s gazebo at eleven o’clock in the morning, sipping tea and nibbling a raspberry scone while Narcissa prattled about her latest shopping trip to Paris, and studiously avoided all mention of anything relating to Draco’s marital and familial situation. Draco suppressed a snort, thinking that the one time he really wanted to talk about what had been happening on that front, his mother was not playing along.

When she paused to sip her own tea, Draco sucked up his courage and plowed in. “Mother,” he said, “I’d really like to talk to you about something, if you have a little time.”

“For you, dear, I will always have all the time you need. What’s on your mind, love?”

“More accurately, ‘who’ would be the question. Hermione Granger,” he answered, and he recognized immediately that he’d been unable to prevent a smile from crossing his face at the mention of her name.

His mother noticed, too. “I see,” she said, grinning madly into her teacup. “You know I don’t like to pry, Draco, so just tell me what you want me to know.”

Holding back another rude noise, Draco simply lifted an eyebrow. They both knew how utterly untrue her statement had been. “Of course, Mother, you are the very soul of the disinterested bystander.”

She had the grace to blush and waved a hand at him, barely missing swatting his shoulder, and encouraging him to get on with it.

“As I’m sure you’ve heard, I’ve been seeing Hermione for the last few weeks, and it’s been, ah, going… well,” he hemmed and hawed.

“I see,” Narcissa repeated, peering at her son over the rim of her Lenox china. “Go on,” she urged, biting the inside of her lip to forestall an untimely eruption of laughter. She had indeed heard a couple of very interesting stories from Pansy, whom Draco continually confided in, and whom he regularly forgot to admonish about keeping their conversations private, especially from his mother.

Draco’s nervous energy had reached a fever pitch and he rose, pacing the open-aired structure rapidly. “We’re, uh, getting on well,” he repeated.

“So you said.”

He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, three times, before finally allowing coherent words to form. “I like her. A lot.”

“And?”

“I could really see a future with her.”

“That’s lovely, dear.”

“I’m going to ask her to see me exclusively.”

“How do you think she’ll respond?”

“I think she’ll agree. I hope she will.”

“Then what?”

“I can really see a future with her.”

“I know, dear. You’ve said that.”

“I think I could really love her.”

That was a bit more than Narcissa expected to hear, and she swallowed thickly. “That’s wonderful, dear,” she replied in a whisper.

“How could I have been so wrong, Mum?” Draco begged, finding his seat heavily and raking his hands through his hair.

“About what, Draco?”

“Muggle-borns. Blood supremacy. All of it. She’s an amazing woman, an incredible witch. Even if things between us don’t work out, I wouldn’t have missed this opportunity to get to know her.”

“We were all wrong about many things, dear. And we’ve paid heavy prices for that. You have an opportunity to begin to right many of those wrongs. Just be sure that your relationship with Miss Granger is based on what’s real and important to you rather than on expediency, even at the expense of your legacy. Your heart is worth more than any inheritance, Draco, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” she told him vehemently, grasping his hand tightly as she spoke.

“I’ve come to realize that, Mum. The decisions I’ll be making over the next few weeks will be guided by my conscience and my heart, not my pocketbook. I make that promise to myself as much as to you.” Unspoken but no less important was his implied promise to Hermione.

“So, when can we expect to meet Miss Granger?” Narcissa wondered.

“I’m not quite ready to do that within the next couple of weeks, but soon, I think, depending on how she responds to my proposal.”

The flash in Narcissa’s eyes was fleeting but unmistakable.

“No, Mother, not yet. I meant about seeing each other exclusively,” Draco warned with an internal sigh at her lack of subtlety.

“You said ‘yet,’ Draco. Does that mean you anticipate a time when that will happen?” She couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her tone.

“Mother, would it make you happy if I say ‘yes’?”

“Only if it makes you happy, dear.”

“I think it very well could,” he replied thoughtfully.

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On the heels of their successful brunch gathering at the Potters’ house, Pansy consulted Draco about the possibility of organizing another group outing to a dance hall or night club. He’d been, if not enthusiastic, accepting of the idea, knowing it would be met with approval from the one person he was currently most interested in impressing. He gave Pansy the okay to proceed, telling her that he’d take care of inviting Hermione.

Thus it was that the next Friday night found a group of more than a dozen Hogwarts alumni gathering once again at the Swish & Flick for an evening of drinks, dancing, and conversation – to the degree that was possible in the typically crowded, noisy venue. The Potters, Longbottoms, Zabinis, Notts, Finnigans, Thomas-Finch-Fletchleys, and Draco and Hermione occupied a large corner booth in the darkened space, couples sitting together and former House-mates intermingled with erstwhile rivals.

Fortuitously, this evening had been the once-monthly “Lovers’ Night” at the Swish & Flick, and the normally eardrum-splitting volume levels and heavy wizard rock beats were replaced by sultry, sensuous melodies and a decibel count that allowed for conversation without shouting. That had suited everyone just fine, but was particularly welcome to Draco Malfoy.

While he and Hermione had met for lunch several times, and shared numerous Floo calls and owl-delivered notes, they had not had much real private time where he could indulge in one of his new favorite pastimes, namely running his hands and lips over the aforementioned witch’s fine form. They’d also not had an opportunity to repeat their amorous encounters since the unexpected overnight stay on Crete. (“Not with the children in the next room, Draco!” Hermione had warned more than once, causing him to wonder how that would be handled should their relationship continue to progress. Hadn’t the woman heard of Silencing Charms, for Merlin’s sake?) Draco was hopeful; he’d arrived through the Floo just in time to make way for the departure of Molly Weasley and Hermione’s children. That suggested the possibility they’d have the house to themselves for the night, a most welcome prospect.

Draco had wasted little time in getting Hermione into his arms. After one drink apiece, he’d invited her to dance and they’d stayed on the dance floor for several songs, swaying to tunes that could well have been in their own heads for how much attention they paid to the tempos, rhythms, and styles that had actually filled the air.

Their cuddling, nuzzling, and caressing had not gone unnoticed by the other members of their party. Daphne Nott had made the first mention, wryly observing, “Draco seems to have gotten over my sister,” to which her husband had retorted, “Draco was never as into your sister as he is to this witch.”

The non-Slytherin contingent could only take Theo’s comment at face value; they’d never seen Draco and Astoria together in a similar situation and had no basis for comparison. The confirmation from the Zabinis seemed to satisfy their curiosity, as Pansy made an affirming comment. “Draco’s never been into any witch as much as this one, dears, me included.” Their short-lived, though fiery, dalliance during sixth year had been the stuff of legend, at least in Pansy’s mind. Surprisingly, their life-long friendship had not suffered for the brief relationship that both now put down to an outrageous excess of hormones and emotional need. If anything, their platonic connection had been strengthened by the fact that they’d been just what the other required at their own darkest moments.

Now, though, it was clear that the new couple on the dance floor had found something worthwhile and special in each other, and again, no one was surprised when the pair left rather early in the evening, begging fatigue.

Neville had reduced the entire group to giggles and guffaws when, after their departure, he’d said, with a smirk as wicked as Draco’s, “They’re headed for bed alright, but there won’t be any sleeping going on.”

Delightfully wicked Neville had not been wrong. When Hermione had begun to divest Draco of his shirt even before they’d stopped the spin of Apparition, it was clear that their mutual desire would result in an explosive encounter.

“Remind me to thank Molly again for taking the kids tonight,” she gasped into Draco’s ear, as they stumbled together into her bedroom.

“Remind me to send her flowers,” Draco replied with a deep chuckle as he unzipped the form-fitting lapis blue sheath dress Hermione had worn, dragging his lips and tongue down her spine as her tawny flesh was exposed. “Gods, you smell so good. I could just eat you up.”

“Who’s stopping you?” she teased breathlessly, while doing her level best to get her shaking fingers to cooperate in the task of unfastening his belt and releasing the zipper and button on his trousers. She finally succeeded, but not without a little help from some spontaneous wandless magic.

Draco dropped to his knees after peeling her dress to the floor, dragging her red silk knickers with him on the way. She balanced on one high-heeled, sandaled foot as he palmed her thigh and lifted her leg to hook her knee over his shoulder, opening her fully to his attention. He buried his nose in her soft curls and stiffened his tongue to tease her pearl, torturing her deliciously by alternating licks, swirls and devastating suction. Hermione’s trembling, barely held in check by Draco’s firm hands on her hips, became shattering when he relinquished his hold to caress her silk-covered breast, his thumb brushing firmly over the nipple. She gasped at the sensation, gripping his silky blond hair to steady herself as he removed the garment to gently massage one breast, then the other.

His hand traveled to her core and he traced her opening, never letting up his delightful assault on her clitoris. When he felt the shaky buckling of her knees, he wrapped his arm tightly around her back, both grounding her and pulling her fully flush to him, allowing his tongue to travel along her slit. Draco hummed in pleasure as he tasted her. “So sweet, my love,” he murmured, rising just enough to lift her and tip her back onto the bed. He kicked off his shoes, pushed off his trousers, and crawled over her, kissing her deeply as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

With strength and determination that surprised him, Hermione gripped his hips tightly with her knees and rolled to flip them over so that she was on top. With her wand, she cast a spell to light several candles, setting the room aglow. It was then that Draco noticed the wooden cheval mirror near the window, and the erotic reflection that it displayed.

“Look, love, how beautiful you are – how perfect we are together. Watch,” he whispered to her, lifting her directly over his erection and guiding their joining. They established a slow, steady rhythm, both transfixed by the sensual combination of feeling and sight as his thick erection disappeared over and over again into her opening. Draco’s hands trailed along her back, her thighs, her shoulders and came to rest once more in languid caresses on her breasts.

Hermione felt delicious pressure begin to build as his tip stroked her sweet spot over and over, and she leaned forward slightly, increasing her leverage and speed as she rode him. Her change in position meant that she could no longer see the image in the mirror, but Draco could, and the powerful image of their bodies joining so completely and intimately fueled his own want. “Gods, love, I need you,” he groaned.

That was enough for Hermione. Hearing his passion and feeling his organ swelling and pulsing within her while he met her downward thrusts with his upward pushes sent her tumbling over the edge, a perfect whiteness blinding her and sending shockwaves from head to toes.

Draco pulled her down against his chest and kissed her hungrily, adding more fuel to his burning desire. He flipped them over quickly and pushed her legs up while taking position on his knees and intimately reconnecting them, leaning his torso back. “Watch,” he repeated, his voice strained with emotion and arousal. “We belong together like this. Perfect,” he gasped, burying himself inside her fully and thrusting deeply. He shuddered, spilling his seed in her depths, and dropped as gently as he could to cover her completely with his body. “Perfect,” he whispered again, kissing and nibbling at her neck and earlobes.

“Perfect,” Hermione agreed, wrapping her legs around his thighs to pull him tightly against her. In moments, both were asleep, still tangled in each other’s arms.

When morning sun streaming through the drapes awakened Draco, he grunted pleasantly at the heavenly sight beside him and, utterly unable to resist, he shifted his hips to bring his morning erection in contact with Hermione’s delectable derriere, nestling it in her cleft. She pushed back against him instinctively, humming happily in response. He lifted her curls away and kissed her neck, sucking and nipping gently. Suddenly, he drew away sharply, with a deep intake of breath.

“What?” Hermione wondered sleepily.

“I’m so sorry; I completely forgot,” he wheezed, a look of horror in his eyes.

“What?” she repeated, leaning up on her elbows, totally confused.

“Protection. Last night.”

“Oh, is that all?” she asked, soundly terribly amused.

“Well, I know I’m not exactly a baby-making machine with my history, but we shouldn’t take chances,” he said, sounding chagrined and concerned.

“Don’t worry, you goose, I’m on the potion and have been for a long time. We’re safe,” she told him with a pat on his arm and a broad smile. She was surprisingly comforted by his concern, feeling that their budding relationship was taking precedence over some of his daunting problems. “And if it did happen, would that be such a disaster, considering what you’ve been through?” That statement surprised her as much as it did him. Where the hell did that come from? Hermione wondered.

Draco stared at her. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t be horrible, but that’s not exactly what I had in mind for building my family.”

That statement left her feeling affronted and uneasy. She pulled away slightly.

“Ah, shit, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” he said, running his hand through his messy hair. “Hermione, that didn’t come out right. I can’t seem to speak articulately when you’re near me,” he stated, tugging her close again. “I meant that it just wasn’t the proper order of things, not that I wouldn’t want that with you.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he cuddled her tightly, speaking into her ear and tickling her with his warm breath.

“The more I think about it, the more I feel like building a family with you could be exactly what I want. I just want both of us to be sure, and I want you to feel as committed to me as I’m beginning to feel toward you. In fact, I was going to talk to you about this later today, but this seems the perfect time,” he told her, shifting her around so that they were face to face. “I would be so happy if you would agree to see me exclusively. I don’t want to see anyone else, and I’d like to see if this is a relationship that we can make work, for the long term. I know I’m ready, and I hope you are, too.”

Hermione searched his eyes and found nothing but warmth and sincerity, and something that hinted at emotion deeper than physical passion. She traced his brow and cheekbone with her finger, smiling softly, her touch lingering on his jaw as she considered his request.

“If you had asked me that question a couple of months ago, I’d have called St. Mungo’s to have you involuntarily committed,” she ribbed, “but it’s clear to me that we have something worth investing in here. You’ve grown up, and so have I, and it saddens to me think that we were both so closed-minded and prejudiced for so long that we failed to see how compatible we might have been, even just as friends.” She leaned in and kissed his lips gently. “There’s undoubtedly something here between us and I’d like nothing more than to see where this ride will go.”

He grinned broadly in response and growled in her ear. “There’s definitely something between us,” he confirmed, shifting his hips to push the tumescent object against her thigh. “I can’t get enough of you. Let’s celebrate,” he proposed with a chuckle.

She groaned in frustration. “Oh, Draco, I’d love to, but look at the time!” she warned, glancing at the magical cuckoo clock on the wall. “Molly will be back with the kids in less than an hour.”

He nibbled on her shoulder. “That’s okay. I can be quick.”

“But I’ll need a shower, too.”

“Me, too. Even better idea, as a matter of fact!” he decided, shifting away to gather her in his arms and carry her into the bathroom. “Shower sex is my favorite kind.” He laughed as Hermione tucked her head into his shoulder and groaned her acquiescence.

Forty-five minutes later, the two had dried off and were finishing getting dressed when the Floo chime sounded, giving warning of an in-coming call. It was Ginny Potter.

“Hermione, are you up?” she called out.

Dashing into the sitting room, Hermione finished buttoning her blouse as Harry’s wife stuck her head through the green flames. “I’m up, dressed, and ready for Molly and the kids,” she confirmed.

“Is he still there?” Ginny stage-whispered conspiratorially.

“Yes, Madam Potter, I’m still here, but I’ll be leaving shortly,” Draco acknowledged with a smirk, sauntering around the corner into view of the fireplace.

“Oh, uh, hi, Draco! Good morning,” she greeted with a rivaling twist of her own lips.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, wrapping his arms around Hermione’s waist from behind and sharply tugging her flush against his chest, earning an elbow to his ribs when Ginny snorted in amusement.

Hermione twisted to face him. “You don’t need to go, you know. The kids are going to need to get accustomed to seeing you around.”

Draco regarded her carefully for a moment. “Are you sure? You don’t mind them seeing me here?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. They’re too young to understand the implications, anyway. If we’re going to make this work, we all need to develop our relationships. Might as well start now,” she reasoned.

He shrugged happily. “Fine by me. What say you, Mrs. Potter? Any objections?” he asked the image still peering out of the fireplace.

“Who am I to stand in the way of l’amour? I just wanted to give you a heads-up that Molly will be there in about thirty minutes. Should give you time to get everything sorted.”

“Thanks, Gin,” Hermione answered. “We’re fine. Do you know if they’ve had breakfast yet?”

Ginny laughed loudly. “Are you kidding? We are talking about my mother, you know.”

Hermione shook her head in acknowledgement. “Too true. Dumb question. I’ll just make something quick for Draco and me, then. I’ll call you later, sweet,” she added, signing off the call.

“Later, love!” Ginny replied, pulling away from the Floo connection.

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The arrival of Molly, Hugo, and Rose forty minutes later had given them plenty of time to have a quick breakfast of tea and scones. The children had been happily surprised to see Draco and had dragged him to the sitting room to show him what Uncle Harry had taught them about Wizard’s Chess. This Saturday morning visit had been the first of several over the next two months, during which Draco had become closer to Hermione’s two tots and they to him, to the point that Rose and Hugo had each taken to asking their mother nearly every day when “Uncle Draco” would be visiting again. Rose had asked her mother why he kept sending big bouquets of red tulips, and wondered whether she might have some flowers too. The next day, Draco had sent, along with red roses for Hermione, a small arrangement consisting of one red, one yellow, and one pink rose addressed to “My Little Rose, with love from Draco.” The child had been over the moon for days.

The new couple had built a new habit of taking lunch together at least three times a week, and both had had to buy additional supplies of Floo powder to accommodate all of the back-and-forth calling. It was now commonplace to see Draco and Hermione out together in Diagon Alley and tongues had started wagging over the new developments. More than one gossip column had featured a picture of the two cuddling together in a booth at one restaurant or another, and there was rampant speculation over the nature of their relationship. Both kept their counsel when asked, and had only told their closest friends about their now-exclusive arrangement. None of them had been particularly surprised, and Pansy Zabini, in particular, had worn a smug expression every time they’d had occasion to meet. Draco had taken to rolling his eyes rather than commenting, though the silly grin he wore belied his irritation.

Hermione was still reluctant to allow Draco to stay overnight with the children in the house, so their private time together had been limited to a handful of serious necking sessions and one rather memorable weekend when Ron had taken the children for one of their regularly scheduled twice-monthly visits. Hermione had jokingly complained that they’d only left the bed for meals and bathroom breaks, while Draco had reminded her that they’d eaten easily half of their meals in that same bed, feeding each other and, at least once, getting rather creative with methods of consuming whipped cream and chocolate sauce. He’d begged for a repeat performance on that.

The coming weekend was to be the next time that Ron would take the children and Draco told Hermione not to make any special plans; he had made arrangements for the two of them to spend the weekend away together. No matter how many times she asked, begged, cajoled, or threatened, Draco wasn’t talking. “It’s a surprise,” was all he would say. He wouldn’t even give her a hint about appropriate clothing, telling her that it had been handled for her.

When he arrived on Friday evening, just minutes after Ron’s departure with Rose and Hugo, he’d been carrying only a book, which turned out to be a Portkey. “Here, love, it activates in one minute,” he said just ten minutes after his entry into her sitting room. Her protests of being unready had gone ignored. “You’re perfect, and everything you will need is already where we’re going. Hush,” he told her, kissing her into quiet as the travel device activated between them.

When they landed together, Hermione immediately recognized their surroundings. He’d returned them to the beach house on Crete, where they’d had their first extended date and where they’d first made love. The house was filled with red and white roses, and the patio was decorated with a potted primrose, which Draco told her he would plant in her garden. A warming charm kept away the slight chill of the October evening, and a white linen-draped table for two was awaiting them under the stars. Draco took Hermione’s hand, kissed her palm, and led her to her seat.

“My lady, won’t you make yourself comfortable?” he offered, checking quickly to ensure that everything he’d requested and arranged had been executed to perfection. A nervous smile lit his face as he noted all the pieces were in their proper places. A bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal 1990 Champagne sat in a sterling silver standing ice bucket and Lalique crystal flutes were waiting to be filled. Salade Frisee with a red wine vinaigrette waited, chilled to perfection, on the table under stasis charms. A crusty baguette and sweet butter sat in the middle of the table.

“I thought we could have a nice, private dinner under the stars tonight, love. I hope everything will be to your liking,” he noted earnestly.

“Well, Draco, it seems that you’ve come to know my tastes quite well,” she observed with a laugh. “This is my favorite salad.”

“I try to pay attention,” he replied, taking a bite after she’d sampled from her plate.

“Clearly, you’ve done a good job of it.”

“When something – someone – is important to me, I commit to doing my very best,” he stated very seriously.

“Draco, is something on your mind? You seem a little tense,” she observed.

He took her hand in his and squeezed it briefly. “I’m fine, love. Just want to make sure you’re enjoying this.”

“What’s not to enjoy? A beautiful setting, wonderful food, perfect company – a rather lovely bottle of champagne on ice…” she observed.

“Yes, well, the champagne will be served momentarily. Clashes with the red wine vinaigrette - don’t you agree?”

“You do have an extremely valid point there, Draco. Too sharp for the delicate bubbles!” she noted with a smile. It was clear that he had something on his mind, she thought, but she would be patient and allow him to get there in his own time. She did, however, have her suspicions.

“Are you ready for the main course?” he asked.

“Whenever you are,” Hermione agreed.

Draco tapped his wand against the table, signaling the house-elf, Juji, to clear their dishes and bring the next course. Plates of grilled lamb chops, rosemary roasted potatoes, and sautéed broccolini appeared before them.

“Oh! Just perfect!” Hermione exclaimed.

Draco smiled at her obvious delight. He knew lamb was a rare treat, considering it was something her children didn’t really care for. “Is it done to your liking?” he asked as she cut into one of the perfect little chops.

“Medium rare, exactly the way I love it,” she grinned at him, then turned her attention back to the fragrant meal.

Draco took a moment to open the champagne with a deft twist of his wrist, not spilling a single drop. He filled both flutes and handed one to her. “A toast – to my beautiful, brilliant Hermione, and to thousands of evenings just like this.”

She tapped her flute gently against his and sipped. “Ohhhhh, Draco. You spoil me dreadfully. This is… outrageous!”

“Nothing but the very best for you, love,” he answered, saluting her once more with his glass before taking a sip of his own.

He hesitated a moment, obviously trying to work out how he wanted to say what was on his mind. He watched her closely for a moment and reached for her hand once more. “I’d like to revise that toast, if you don’t mind.”

She laughed. “Well, if you wish, but I thought it was perfectly lovely.”

“It was fine, but it wasn’t everything that I meant,” he began. “’Just like this’ is really only part of the picture. And it’s also not enough. I don’t want to wait a minute longer to make you mine and to be yours, entirely,” he told her, slipping from his chair to perch beside her on one knee. “Everything I’ve ever thought I wanted or needed in my life, I finally found in you. I promise you my fidelity and honor, my attention and affection, my devotion to you and your children, and if we’re so blessed, our children. Most of all, I promise you my love. If you’ll have me, I’ll pledge you all of me, for all of my life. Will you, Hermione? Will you marry me?”

Hermione stared at him, agape. His question had not been entirely unexpected, but his words were more than she’d dared to hope. The emotional intimacy and passion had continued to grow over the last couple of months, and she undoubtedly had found herself daydreaming more than once of a more permanent future with the blond wizard who had burrowed his way into her heart and under her skin. He’d told her that he loved her, but usually in a passionate moment. It was in his eyes, though, that she now saw the truth of it. He was in as deep as she was.

“Oh, Draco!” she cried, joining him on her knees. “I want nothing on this earth more than that. Yes, I’ll marry you.” She might have tried to say more, but her words were cut off by the fervent and adoring press of Draco’s lips against hers. As his hands threaded through her curls, holding her close, he murmured words of love against her mouth. “Always, forever, my love. I can’t ever see my life without you.”

She grinned through her joyous tears and pulled away slightly to tell him what was in her heart. “I love you, Draco. I do. It’s been unexpected and crazy and wonderful, and I can’t imagine my life without you as my center. Only my children mean as much to me as you, and I hope we can add to our family together.”

He kissed her again, pouring everything he could into their connection. A few moments later, he pulled away suddenly. “Oh!” Draco exclaimed, a horrified expression suddenly overtaking his joyful smile. “I can’t believe I forgot – what an idiot!”

“What?” Hermione giggled at his distress, watching as he patted his pockets.

Relief flooded his features as he found what he was looking for. He pulled a small velvet box from his trousers and opened it for her to see. “I guess I need to ask again,” he noted. “Will you marry me, Hermione, and accept this as a token of my promise and my love?”

The ring was delicate and beautiful, and exactly to her simple taste. A slim, knife edge platinum band was crowned by a two-carat oval diamond flanked by two quarter-carat trilliant-cut rubies. “It’s perfect – I love it, and I love you.” She held out her hand, stunned that it wasn’t shaking nearly as much as she feared it would, and he slipped the ring over her finger. The fit was perfect, as was always the case with rings made in the wizarding world, and the stones sparkled and glowed brilliantly in the moonlight.

Draco took her hand in his and kissed the ring on her finger, then assisted her in rising from their kneeling position, enfolding her in a tight embrace. “Thank you, Hermione. You’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

She leaned back slightly and traced his jaw with a finger; he seemed to love when she did that, shivering pleasantly every time she touched him in that manner. “We make each other happy. We’ll build our family together, and find even more joy in that,” she promised.

Draco hesitated for just a moment and guided her back to her seat. “There’s something more that I want to say to you about that, Hermione, just so that there’s no question in your mind about my motives. I know we’ve talked a little about the requirements of my inheritance, but I want you to know that it has absolutely nothing to do with my proposal. I want children with you, but if you want to wait five years, or even ten, it wouldn’t matter in the least to me. We won’t ever want for anything, and I couldn’t care less about keeping the Malfoy bequests. What matters to me is being with you, being a good step-father to Rose and Hugo, and us eventually having a baby or two of our own, but on our timing, not what my great-grandfather’s will stipulates.”

“I know, and I never would have agreed to continue seeing you if I thought otherwise. You’ve proved your sincerity and your feelings through your actions, and I have no doubts. We’ll have our babies, on our own time, and as far as I’m concerned, we can start working on it right away. I know how much you want a child of your own, and it’s a gift that I can, and want to, give.”

Draco looked at her in awe and admiration. “You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever known, but I’m serious, there’s no rush,” he told her, adding, “as long as we can do lots and lots of practicing.”

“I don’t foresee a problem there, you delicious beast,” she teased, rising to re-seat herself on his lap. She wrapped her arms around Draco’s neck, tickling along the nape, and kissed him thoroughly. “In fact, I think we should go practice now. We’re pretty good, but I’m an overachiever – always striving for perfection.”

He rose, lifting her easily into his arms, and they abandoned their dinner in favor of other, more physical passions. The champagne bottle, however, was not left behind. Hermione’s navel was an innie, after all.

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Telling family and friends about their happy news had taken nearly all day that Sunday, and had been met with enthusiasm and hearty congratulations all around. The only exception, predictably, was Hermione’s ex-husband. He’d not been upset at the idea of his former wife remarrying, per se, but the idea of her being wed to Malfoy was thoroughly unthinkable. Had he any sensitivity, he’d have recognized the same level of hurt that he’d caused with his affair and on-going relationship with Lavender Brown. He’d threatened to sue for full custody of their children and had only been dissuaded when every member of his family had told him they’d never speak to him again should he go that route. He’d reluctantly abandoned the idea, but had grumbled incessantly about his kids’ minds being poisoned by “the ferret.”

Wedding planning was the next step, and they easily and mutually decided on soon and simple. While the ceremony wasn’t unimportant, it was the marriage that mattered infinitely more than the wedding. Draco and Hermione decided on a small gathering in Malfoy Manor’s smaller ballroom in four weeks, inviting no more than about fifty of their closest family and friends.

An early December wedding called for lush fabrics, hearty flowers, and rich, comforting foods. Hermione selected dresses made of velvet for herself and her two attendants, Ginny Potter and Pansy Zabini, and left the menus and flowers to her mother and future mother-in-law. The “married” part was her concern.

She and Draco spent hours writing and perfecting their vows, while sticking to the standard, Ministry-approved ceremonial structure. The final versions were emotional, heartfelt, and deeply personal. In the lovely suite that Narcissa had set aside for her use during the week prior to the wedding, Hermione read her notes one final time:

_When you came back into my life six months ago, I could have never guessed at the depth and impact of that moment. What began on a dance floor became the path to my future, my life, and my most cherished dream. You showed me that a man is not his name, but his soul. You taught me how to see past our filters. You proved that the greatest love can be born of any origin. You helped me to understand that trust is sprung from the simple act of telling the truth. And you helped me find the real center of my heart, body, and soul with your words, your touch and your actions. Draco, I promise you my heart, my body and my soul because only when I share them with you am I everything that I can be._

Feeling satisfied that she’d captured what she wanted to say, Hermione rolled the parchment and tied it with the red velvet ribbon that would hold it secure until it was time to read it at the ceremony. Across the hall, ensconced in his own study, Draco was putting his own thoughts to parchment for the last revision:

_I never really understood what it meant to completely love someone until you came back into my life. All the odds were stacked against us, but when I came to know your heart and your soul, it made me want to fight for something - for us - for the first time in my life. I found so much more than love with you, Hermione. I found the courage to be the man I could only be with someone so pure of heart beside me. You make me want to be a man of belief and conviction and depth. You make me want to share my own heart and soul. You helped me to understand what it means to share my body for something far beyond physical. For your love, I would and will relinquish everything else that I am or have. Only with you am I really a man - heart, body, and soul. Only with you does my life have meaning and purpose. I know now that my life only began on the day I opened my heart to you._

Draco’s throat felt strangely constricted as he re-read his words once more. They represented an outpouring of emotion that he’d only ever shared with Hermione in their most intimate moments, and he was a little concerned that this was too personal to share with the congregated guests. Moments later, a knock on the door told him that he’d run out of time to do any re-writes. With resolve, he rolled the parchment and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. This was what was in his heart, and this was what he’d say to his bride, no matter who was listening. Courage would, finally, win out.

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Taking their honeymoon on Crete had been Hermione’s request, but Draco had agreed wholeheartedly. Some of the most important and memorable moments of their relationship had happened at the lovely beach house, so it seemed fitting that they would begin their life as a married couple in that same spot.

They had spent the day after the wedding reviewing the stack of wedding photos that Narcissa had forwarded via eagle owl early that afternoon. They included images of both Draco and Hermione as they prepared for the ceremony, Draco in formal black robes trimmed with black velvet, his white shirt brighter than new-fallen snow (of which there was plenty, a large storm having hit during the reception), and Hermione in an ivory velvet gown, simple and elegant in design with a fitted bodice, sweetheart neckline, long sleeves, and gently flaring A-line skirt, edged with tiny pearls at the neck and trimmed with faux fur at the cuffs and hemline. Pearls graced Hermione’s ears and she wore a simple Juliet cap of pearls in her hair.

Hermione’s attendants had worn dresses similar to her own, but in rich crimson velvet and with a straight skirt. Draco’s attendants, Blaise and Theo, had worn traditional black formal robes. The ceremony had been brief, but had contained the three elements most critical to the couple: an exchange of personal vows, a hand-fasting rite, and a full magical bonding. Regardless of what any ancestor’s will said or what would become of the Malfoy fortune, only infidelity could break the bond between them. Further, they had seen to that stipulation with a full fidelity vow, which the consequences of breaking were dire in the extreme.

Now, relaxing in the barely cool Mediterranean air, thanks to the open French doors in their bedroom, the newlyweds cuddled in the afterglow of yet another languorous session of love-making. Hermione toyed absently with the light trail of dark blond hair on Draco’s abdomen, and cleared her throat.

“I have something to tell you, Draco,” she began.

He kissed the top of her head and hummed his acknowledgement. “What’s that, love?”

“I know we talked about it before the wedding, but I was very serious about it.”

“Okay,” he said with a huge yawn.

“Am I keeping you up?” she teased.

“Already did that, three times today,” Draco reminded her with a very smug grin.

“Jerk.” She swatted him playfully, then snuggled in closer. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

“I’m sorry. Please, continue.” He was trailing his fingers up and down her spine in a vain attempt to cajole her into a fourth round of lovemaking.

“I stopped taking the potion three days ago,” she confessed. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

“What potion?” he wondered aloud from his sex-addled brain.

“ _The_ potion, you dolt.”

“Oh. Okay.” He pulled away just enough to look at her face. “Why did you think I’d be angry?”

“Because I didn’t tell you about it first,” she explained.

“Hermione, it is your own body. You can make those decisions on your own. And you know that it’s something I want someday, anyway. The timing, as far as I’m concerned, is up to you. There’s no reason for me to be angry. Besides, with all the problems I’ve had, it will probably take a while for you to get pregnant, so it’s probably not a bad idea at all to get started.” He yawned again.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Now let me sleep for a half hour so I can wake up and fuck you silly again.” Draco snuggled more deeply into the pillows and wrapped her more tightly in his arms. They were both asleep, wearing nothing more than sated, happy grins, moments later.

00000000000000000000000000

Three days later, Draco and Hermione were sipping espresso after breakfast when Draco set his cup down firmly and said, “I have a proposal.”

“Uh, we’re already married, remember?” she teased, wiggling her be-ringed fingers at him and pointing to the wide platinum band on his left hand.

“Different, more specific proposal, Mrs. Malfoy,” he clarified, leaning over to kiss her briefly.

“Speak, Mr. Malfoy,” she instructed.

“I think we should go home today.”

“Are you not having a good time here?” Hermione asked, concerned that he was getting a little bored with doing nothing but eating, having sex, and sleeping.

“Oh, no, I’m having a marvelous time. There’s nothing better than hanging around with my new bride, shagging her rotten, and dining on fabulous Greek cuisine,” he refuted her concern, with all sincerity and seriousness. “The thing is,” he hesitated, “I miss the kids. Can we go home and spend some time as a family?”

Hermione launched out of her seat and dropped into Draco’s lap, peppering his face with kisses. “You, Mr. Malfoy, are perfect. Yes. Let’s go home this afternoon.”

“Just this afternoon?”

“Yes. I just need you to shag me rotten one more time before we leave.”

“Ah, good idea. I think I can do that.” He chuckled when she took off running at full steam, dashing after her and catching up just in time to tackle her to the bed. Deep rumbles of laughter mixed with high-pitched squeals for several minutes, then gave way to breathy moans and gasps of pleasure. A panted “Oh, Draco, yes!” was followed quickly by a decidedly male groan, then silence as the lovers dozed peacefully.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000

The new Malfoy family settled in to their routines over the course of the next few weeks, with the children getting more and more comfortable with their new step-father. They’d taken to calling him “Daddy Draco,” much to Ron’s ire. He had, however, been reasonably civil when he’d come to pick up the children for their twice-monthly weekend visits. Ron had had his own news to share a couple of weeks earlier, when he’d told Hermione that Lavender was pregnant and they’d be getting married soon. She’d told him that she was happy for him; whether he was entirely happy for himself was in question.

The news, however, had prompted an idea, and Hermione decided to approach Draco about it once the children were in bed for the night.

“I’ve been thinking about something, love,” Hermione began.

“When are you not thinking about something, Hermione?” he teased.

“Well, true, but this is another one of those specific somethings,” she retorted.

“I’m all ears.”

“What would you say to selling this house to Ron and Lavender and buying something of our own?” she asked in one breath.

Draco shrugged. “Fine by me. We could probably use a little more space anyway. I’ll call an estate agent in the morning.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Any thoughts on where you’d like to live?” Draco asked.

“I don’t have a real preference, but probably not right in London. Something a little more in the country, I think. How about you?”

“I think that’s a great idea. Maybe somewhere between London and Wiltshire would be nice,” Draco opined.

“Perfect, and we should look for a place with at least four bedrooms, maybe up to six.”

Draco stopped short. “What? Are you…?”

“Oh, no! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. I’m just thinking for the future, Draco.”

“Right, of course. Perfectly sensible. I agree.”

“Good. I’m glad,” she noted. “I did have another idea, though, that we should discuss.”

“And?”

“I think we should see Healer Hubert together, just to be sure.”

“It’s only been seven weeks since you’ve been off the potion. I’m sure it’ll take longer than that,” Draco said.

“You’re probably right, but since we know you had some genetic concerns, it couldn’t hurt to have the two of us get a little check-up and some advice to be certain we’re doing everything we can.” She waited for a moment, watching the concern on her husband’s face. “Besides, I really want us to have that baby as soon as we can.”

“Can we ‘practice’ some more tonight?” Draco wondered, leaning in to nibble on her earlobe.

“Of course we can. Silencing charms are all in place. Last one to the bed’s a rotten egg!”

000000000000000000000000000000000

Two days later, Draco and Hermione Malfoy were seated in the waiting room of Healer Hubert’s office, anticipating their first appointment as a couple. Draco had visited two or three times since he and Hermione had started dating, but the appointments had been more general in nature, ensuring that his basic reproductive health had not deteriorated. This time, the newlyweds were there with a purpose.

“The Healer will see you now,” his medi-witch announced, opening the door and ushering them in.

Healer Hubert stood as the two entered, extending his hand first to Hermione, then to Draco. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy. Make yourself comfortable.” He waved at the armchairs behind them. “Draco, good to see you again.”

“Thanks, Healer, for seeing us today. As I mentioned to you in our Floo call, Hermione and I have been married for almost two months, and we want to start trying to get pregnant as soon as possible,” Draco summarized.

“Very good. Well, Mrs. Malfoy, can you tell me a little about your medical history, specifically as it relates to reproductive health?”

“Certainly, Healer, and please do call me ‘Hermione.’ I have two children from a previous marriage, and both pregnancies were fairly routine. I had a little high blood pressure during the first one, but that was corrected easily with a low-dose potion.”

“Did you have any difficulty conceiving, Hermione?” he asked, taking notes as she answered.

“No, not really. Both children were conceived within about four or five months of our intention.”

“For genetic identification purposes, what is your blood status?”

“I’m a Muggle-born.”

“What have you been using to this point for contraception?”

“I was on the potion for several months, but I stopped taking it a few days before the wedding. I really don’t see any point in waiting too long. We want to have a baby, and I’d like for all my children to be fairly close in age.”

“Fair enough. Are your menstrual periods regular?”

“Like clockwork.”

“When was your last period?” the Healer asked.

“About a week ago,” came the answer, surprisingly from Draco. When the Healer’s lips quirked in amusement, Draco defended his comment. “What? I pay attention to these things.”

“Not a problem, Draco.”

“Hermione, do you drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes?

“I’ve never smoked, but I do have an occasional glass of wine.”

“That’s fine, but you’ll want to limit that to no more than a glass a day.”

“No problem, and if it helps, I can give that up.”

“Not an issue for now. Let’s table that for the time being. When was the last time you had a gynecological exam?”

“About eight months ago, for regular screening.”

“Were any issues found?”

“No, my Healer said I was very healthy.”

“Good. Now, for the both of you - Tell me, how frequently are you having intercourse?”

Draco coughed. “Uh, we’re newlyweds, you know.”

Healer Hubert laughed. “More than once a day?”

“Well, not since the honeymoon,” Draco answered with a little squirming in his seat.

“For the short-term, that’s not a problem, and it may not be an issue at all with the two of you. I’ll want to do an exam on Hermione, and do the usual testing on you, Draco. Who’d like to go first?”

Hermione stood. “I will.”

“Great. Draco, you’re welcome to join us in the examining room, if you wish,” Healer Hubert offered.

“Thank you, I’d like to, as long as I won’t be in your way.”

“Doesn’t take much room to wave a wand over a reclining patient!” he noted with a laugh.

He guided the Malfoys into the examining room and settled Hermione onto a cushioned table. “Just put your arms up over your head and relax. I’ll do the rest,” he instructed, and began tracing his wand in patterns over Hermione’s body. Five minutes later, he’d reached a conclusion.

“You’re as healthy as a hippogriff, Hermione. I don’t see anything that could preclude you conceiving easily, at least from your end.”

“That’s great news, Healer. Thank you,” Draco spoke.

“Now for you, young man. Up on the table.”

Another series of wand movements and several minutes later, the Healer had a conclusion. “I don’t see any major change from our last appointment, and that’s generally good. Obviously, we still need to get a sample to test motility and sperm counts. Would you like your wife to assist you?” the Healer asked.

“Uh, sure,” Draco replied, standing to move to one of the Privacy Rooms.

“Okay. You know the drill, Draco. The two of you can meet me back here when you’re done.”

When they were settled into the room with the door locked, Hermione asked, “So, how am I supposed to ‘assist’ you?”

“Pretty simple, actually. You, uh, help me get off and catch my ejaculate in that plastic vial,” he explained with a grin, pointing to the labeled container on the side table. “This is so much better with help than on my own.” He kissed Hermione briefly, then stepped away to remove his trousers.

“The only thing to remember is that the ejaculate can’t be contaminated with any other substance, so that means no direct genital contact and no oral, either. It’s basically just using your hand,” he instructed.

“I can do that,” she agreed, gently running her hand along his already swelling penis. “That doesn’t mean I can’t kiss you at the same time, though.”

“Of course not. You can kiss me all you like. There’s no doubt that's a good thing.” The tone of his voice was serious, but his smile was teasing.

“So, I just kiss you, and stroke you till you come?”

“Uh huh, that’s about it.”

“Like this?” Hermione wrapped her fingers around his thick organ and began a slow, steady rhythm of upward and downward strokes, running her thumb over his glans with every pass, spreading the little bit of clear fluid that had already gathered there.

“Yeah, just like that,” Draco breathed heavily, recapturing her mouth in a deep, soulful kiss.

Hermione continued to stroke, increasing both speed and pressure as Draco’s breathing became more labored and rapid. From her experience with the man, she knew it wouldn’t be long. She reached for the vial with her other hand as she teased his sac with her fingertips. She repositioned her grasp over his shaft and pumped rapidly a few more times, feeling the organ begin to pulse and swell in its final push to orgasm. She felt him gasp into her mouth and knew it was time. She positioned the vial over the head of his penis and captured his emission into the sterile container, sealing it as soon as he was done.

She bent her head to take him into her mouth for a moment, prolonging his pleasure for that brief interlude.

“You are deliciously naughty, wife,” Draco drawled, running his fingers through her hair for a moment, then pulling her up for a final kiss.

“I’m glad I could help,” she replied, smiling wickedly.

Draco pulled on his trousers and reminded her that they needed to get the vial to the Healer as quickly as possible. They returned to his office and waited for him to join them. In their short private moment, Draco leaned over and whispered in Hermione’s ear, “I owe you one.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “No repayment necessary. Consider it my donation to the cause, although I won’t refuse the return favor.”

Healer Hubert returned a moment later, retrieving the vial and telling them he’d be back in a few minutes with test results.

After what felt like the longest ten minutes of their lives, the Healer returned, and he was not scowling. That probably meant reasonably good news.

“What’s the verdict, then?” Draco asked.

“Things are looking pretty good, everything considered. Your sperm counts are a tiny bit low, but your frequent intercourse accounts for that. Motility is fine. All of the other tests showed in the nominal range. I think the two of you have a very good change of conceiving.”

“How good?” Hermione asked.

“I’d give it about an eighty percent probability, based on both your combined genetics and the specific test results.”

“Really? That’s great!” Draco enthused.

“Is there anything specific we can do to help things along?” Hermione wondered.

“There are a few strategies that help. For the most part, you should be careful about having intercourse too often. That reduces sperm counts. If, for now, the two of you can limit Draco to four orgasms a week, you’ll increase your chances markedly. Draco, keep on with the clothing strategies, keeping your testicles as cool as possible. As for position, I know it can be a little unimaginative, but the missionary position is the best for conception. After Draco ejaculates, stay on your back for at least ten to fifteen minutes and keep your hips tilted back. Other than that, just do what comes naturally.”

“Thank you, Healer Hubert. We appreciate your guidance and advice,” Draco said, and rising together, the couple left hand in hand.

_Several Weeks Later…._

“You know, Ginny once warned me that your goal was to bed me.”

He twirled a long, pale finger through a long, dark curl. “Did she, now?”

“Yes, well, not exactly, but that was the implication.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “I told her that I’d be last on your list, but that I liked the way you moved your hips,” she confessed, making a sound that could have been interpreted as a giggle if she were ten years younger.

“Are you still of that opinion?” he wondered, kissing a line down her shoulder and upper arm. She could feel the smile in his lips.

“Oh, now I know exactly how good you are with them. I’m not likely to release you from my grasp.”

“Hmm. I kind of like that idea.” He tugged her more fully into his chest, kissing the back of her neck as her curls fell away.

“Hey, I need to keep my hips tilted for another ten minutes,” she protested lightly.

“I have a feeling that this batch was particularly potent. I’m quite sure I’ve managed to plant that seed this time, wife of mine,” he boasted, nibbling her earlobe. “And on the off-chance that I didn’t, I’m quite willing to try again. And again, and again, and again. And one more time after that.” His words were punctuated with kisses and she could feel the rumble of his chuckle, deep and low in his chest.

“The kids will be so excited to have a new brother or sister,” she noted.

“Well, at least it won’t be a surprise. You’ve been hinting at it for months now, so they’re at least as eager as we are.”

“I really hope it worked this time,” she added quietly.

“Me too, sweet. For some reason, this time felt… different. Deeper, or something.” She swatted his arm at the slightly crass comment.

“Hey! That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t talking about the act. I was talking about the feeling. It was exceptionally… connected, between you and me, I mean. It’s always really great with us, but this was… I just can’t find the words. All I know is that I don’t want to let you out of my arms.”

“Draco Malfoy, romantic extraordinaire,” she teased. “But I know what you mean.” She paused. “Did you ever feel this way with Astoria?” she asked, so quietly that he had to strain to hear her.

“Never. Not even close,” he answered vehemently. “You know I didn’t love her that way. I had sex with her with the intent of procreation only, especially in the last half of our marriage. She wasn’t unattractive to me, but she didn’t… complete me. I think the reason this will work, aside from the genetics, is that we make love. I’m convinced that that will be our spiritual advantage. The gods will answer our prayers. And she wasn’t you. I feel like what I share with you is the essence of life.”

Draco was sated and sleepy as they continued to murmur to each other. “I’m going to have a short kip, sweet, if that’s okay,” he told her through a yawn. She kissed the arm that he’d kept wrapped around her and drifted away into her own thoughts while his warm breath ghosted over her bare shoulders.

_Three Weeks Later…_

Draco was helping his stepchildren, Hugo and Rose, get dressed for school while Hermione finished her shower and preparations to get to work. He’d taken them through the Floo and returned to their comfortable home to join his wife for a quick breakfast before heading off to the day’s business. He entered the kitchen and found that there was something – not food – resting over his plate. A sprig of pussy willow.

Hermione stood behind him, watching from the doorway. He’d heard her clear her throat and turned with eyes wide and watery.

“Really? Are you sure?” he pleaded, feeling his knees shake with anticipation and his stomach churn with desperate hope.

She nodded, happy tears spilling over her cheeks and onto her broad, elated smile.

He closed the distance between them in two long, swift strides, lifted her in his arms and twirled them both around. “I’m going to be a daddy!”

The Beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings (taken from various sources including Wikipedia and www.languageofflowers.com):
> 
> Campanula and dark pink roses – gratitude
> 
> Olive greens - peace
> 
> Viscaria – an invitation to dance
> 
> Ferns – sincerity
> 
> Blue periwinkle – early friendship
> 
> Acanthus plant – the arts
> 
> Forsythia – anticipation
> 
> Orange lilies - desire
> 
> Coral roses - passion
> 
> Red tulips – a declaration of love
> 
> Red roses – true love
> 
> Red, yellow, and pink roses together – joy, excitement, and grace
> 
> Primrose – everlasting love
> 
> Red and white roses together - unity
> 
> Pussy willow – motherhood
> 
> In case you’re curious, Louis Roederer Cristal 1990 Champagne is quite rare and very special. The quoted price is $14,730 per bottle. Only the very best is good enough for Monsieur Malfoy and his lovely bride.


End file.
